Ascended Vices
by ScottPress
Summary: Harry seeks a purpose of his own. Lines blur for Sirius as he fills the power vacuum in Wizarding Britain. The war never really ended. Book Two of Dark Triad Trilogy.
1. PROLOGUE: Perspectives, Part 1

**AN:** I make no money from this and I don't want to. I do this for fun.

This is a reupload. I purged my account in October 2018 when the profile hack happened. Originally posted in June 2017.

 **Ascended Vices**

 **Book Two of Dark Triad Trilogy**

 **PROLOGUE: Perspectives**

 **Part 1: Sirius**

Sirius threw open the door of the shadowed hall. The others were already seated at the long table. All heads turned to him when he entered, offering no apology for his lateness. His Knights have learned not to question him. As he walked past the seated attendees, he nodded at the muted murmurs of 'Knight-Marshal'. He hardly expected them to fall to their knees, but at these gatherings he insisted on ceremony.

He made for his high-backed chair at the head of the table, the only piece of furniture in the room that stood out as more than strictly functional. He sat down with his back to the unlit fireplace, on a cushion half a step higher than his Knights – all of it a subtle statement that required no words. The Silver Knights were equals, but he was first among them.

"Evening," he began, leaning forward with his elbows on the polished, empty table. "Percy, what says the Wizengamot?"

The wizard on Sirius' immediate right sat perfectly straight. He had taken to Knighthood more readily than anyone else. "Scrimgeour is furious with you, Knight-Marshal."

"Yes, well, when is he not?"

"He's attempting to convince the warlocks that because our involvement had come at the request of a signatory to the Statute of Secrecy, we acted as representatives of Britain, thus the Ministry, which nulls the Writ. He wants you in Azkaban."

Sirius' eyes narrowed. "He said that? He actually invoked Azkaban?"

"Nothing so careless, no," Percy said. "He knows where he's vulnerable. But he's building a bloc in the Wizengamot."

"I don't suppose he listened to your arguments?" Sirius asked, injecting a hopeful note.

"No, sir. And he claims the involvement of goblins is another point to strengthen his case. Supposedly we undermined the authority of Dirk Cresswell and the Goblin Liaison Office."

"Not that Cresswell has much of a position left to undermine," a comment came from the middle of the table, eliciting several chuckles.

Sirius held back most of the hungry grin curving his lips. "Everything according to plan, then. Keep Scrimgeour angry for a few more days, until we can embarrass the Goblin Liaison Office enough to replace Cresswell with someone suitably incompetent. The Ministry will have no choice but trust the Silver Order to talk to Rakeharlaw instead."

The imposed condition of keeping his fingers out of the Ministry pie had turned out to be a bigger hindrance than Sirius was willing to tolerate. The only way was to force the Ministry to come to him. Fortunately, the agreement didn't bar him from having others meddle on his behalf. If the government wouldn't endorse the Silver Order, he would replace it with one that would.

"How is Rufus holding up in the Wizengamot?" Sirius asked. "Is he frustrated enough to resign?"

"Only if he can be Minister instead," Percy said. "He's made no secret of his ambitions. It won him no friends among the warlocks, and several prominent opponents. Scrimgeour is not a forger of alliances."

"Well, he'll have to wait his turn," Sirius said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Barty Crouch is long overdue for that honour. Speaking of people we own..." Another round of laughter rang out, this one less subdued. "Is Fudge quite comfortable?"

Percy Weasley, youngest Senior Undersecretary and Sirius' foremost agent in the Ministry, had a malicious glint in his eye. "I think he's looking forward to passing on the wand. These last few weeks have been particularly trying on his nerves... and his hairline."

"Very well!" Sirius clapped his hands. "Percy, Anton, and Dellan, remember to stay behind after. I have new orders for you regarding the Auror Office.

"Now... you all must be wondering why I've summoned our full membership tonight, seeing as I've a custom of meeting with smaller groups. There is an administrative matter to be settled. Quite frankly, I don't have time to develop strategies for every front myself. The Silver Order will continue to grow. Soon enough we're going to run out of chairs."

Heads turned toward the far side of the table, where only three empty spots remained. The Argents had grown tenfold in the last year. Sirius pushed away from the table and stood up.

"To ensure smooth operation, I am establishing several new positions. As we take on new members, we shall require officers beyond merely myself to share the load of command. I have made selections for these positions solely under my own council, but don't take this as a slight. Every single person in this room can rise. After tonight, all such promotions will be decided by a vote of the officers."

Not without reason the wizards on his immediate left and right had never sat anywhere else. Sirius trusted one of them more than the other, but both have proved their worth.

"Percy Weasley, Anton Robards. You are raised to the rank of Knight-Commander." Sirius looked out over the entire gathering. "In my absence, these gentlemen are to be obeyed as I am. There is no place for insubordination in the Silver Order.

"Further, Dellan Grayson, Mallory Grant... bugger me, now I realise I don't know your proper names. Ribs and Shins!" Sirius paused to reflect Ribs' wry grin with one of his own. "The four of you are raised to the rank of Knight-Captain."

The largely restrained atmosphere loosened up after the announcement as new officers accepted congratulations, some genuine, others laced with understated jealousy. Sirius let it slide. He wasn't going to stifle ambition for the sake of conformity. As long as the Argents ultimately remained loyal to him, a little friendly backstabbing would keep everyone sharp.

Sirius gave leave to depart and soon found himself in the sole company of his newly appointed officers. Those working at the Ministry received additional instructions on top of orders to be disseminated among the Order's general membership. Sirius never shared the full spectrum of his agenda with anyone, but they had to know enough to do what he wanted done.

Once orders had been dispensed, only Mallory was asked to remain behind still. Her illicit portkey business conducted under the guise of the Dungeon Keeper and the relationships she'd cultivated with some of the sharpest hired wands of Europe made her a particularly valuable acquisition for the Silver Order.

"Any word on our mutual friend?" Sirius asked, his head tilted as he leaned on the mantelpiece behind his throne.

"Regrettably, no. I've cast a wide net, but I can only do so much from behind my bar."

Sirius nodded in understanding. Fair enough. "What about Hessberg?"

"He hasn't responded to my inquiries and I doubt he will. Regardless of the Grindelwald connection, he has enough powerful friends left that he won't be intimidated. Can I ask, sir..." Mallory sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed. "What makes you so sure someone like Benedict Hessberg will know where to find a hired wand like Sturgis? Granted, he's got more of a reputation than just any mercenary, but..."

"Mallory, darling – I've never made a secret of the fact that I know some things you never will."

She pressed her lips together, but said nothing. The reprimand, however gentle, had been received. Sirius didn't want to crush her free spirit and she was smart enough to know not to push.

"The girl, Camilla," Sirius said, turning away, absently studying the angle where the floor met the wall. "Have you been able to find her?"

"I confirmed that she used to work for Jorgen Vanard, but she's gone as well. Perhaps..."

She paused and the silence prompted Sirius to look at her. Her apprehension was palpable.

"The chain of command has its place, but I want you to speak up if you have something to say," Sirius said, adopting a warmer tone. It wouldn't do to cow one of his new officers too far.

"Sir, I think I've got as far as I could have by merely asking."

Sirius frowned. She had a point. "Are you suggesting my personal involvement? Hmm... You may be right. Thank you, I'll think about it. In the meantime, I want you to make overtures to whoever you know in France and Italy associated with their governments."

"I don't know any such persons in Italy," Mallory said, straigthening. "But I do in France. Overtures regarding...?"

"Sylvestre Malfoy. I want to know if he's protected like Benedict Hessberg."

Mallory's smile had a dangerous edge to it. "Yes, Knight-Marshal. I'll inform you as soon as I know something."

The door had scarcely closed behind her when it reopened to admit Tonks.

"Meeting's over. Do I still have to title you properly, Knight-Marshal, or can we just talk?"

Sirius fell back onto his chair and propped his legs up on the table, hands together in his lap. "Where are we?"

Tonks assumed an expression to match how unimpressed she apparently was with the locale. "An old mansion you bought off Titus Selwyn and paid Ragnok Rakeharlaw to fix up."

Sirius extended his arms to indicate the room. "We are in the headquarters of the Silver Order," he corrected, his face stony. "Family or not, take care what grievances you bring before me in this place. We're not the Order of the Phoenix and I am not Dumbledore."

"The Order of the Phoenix–"

The rest of the sentence died on her tongue when Sirius met her eyes. Her hair darkened from bright pink to a shade of purple-blue seen on someone choking. Not for the first time, he found himself questioning his decision to extend Tonks an invitation to join the Argents. She leaned on their familial ties to skirt his authority too often for his liking. Perhaps he should have waited before recruiting her. Perhaps he shouldn't have recruited her at all. A year ago he hadn't yet known what he wanted the Argents to become, he'd been desperate to swell the ranks while the Writ issued by the Wizengamot held some influence in the public mind. He saw his goals more clearly now.

He intertwined his hands in his lap again. "Was there something else?"

Tonks never stayed cowed for long. The rebellious gleam in her eyes sparked up again. "I've been in your Order longer than Mallory Grant, or Ribs, or Shins."

The unspoken complaint was clear. Now Sirius had to scramble for an answer. He had expected his appointments to be questioned, but not to his face and not by Tonks. He settled for a half-truth – these not-quite-lies came easier than their purebred cousins.

"I value your loyalty, Tonks, but you expect more in return than you give. I've always made clear that this isn't a democracy. Do your part – I always pay attention, even if you don't see it. That's when I look most closely."

A diplomatic solution. It sounded much better than 'I trust you less than I used to because you think our shared blood entitles you to something you don't deserve'. Tonks struggled to broker peace between her craving for respect and lack of talent for leadership. She wanted to give orders, but she simply wasn't cut out for it.

When Tonks didn't move from her spot, Sirius felt an eyebrow climb his forehead. "I can't help but notice you're still here."

She shuffled her feet, nudged the nearest chair with the tip of her boot. "I don't know how to say this..."

"English works. My French is a bit rusty."

She glared, but there was no spirit in it. Something had her worried, something which trvialised the Silver Order. Best get it out of the way. "I don't have all night, cousin."

Tonks grimaced. "I was at Grimmauld Place the other night," she blurted out at last. "I peeked inside the library. You weren't there, but I noticed... I noticed that the journals of Cygnus Black were missing."

Sirius inhaled deeply, playing for time. "What of it?" he asked, promptly berating himself for sounding defensive.

"Sometimes it's hard to... look at yourself, erm, objectively," said Tonks, wringing her hands. She looked very much younger than she was, just then, hesitant, while he was quietly irritated. He gave no answer, settling for a flat stare. Let her say her piece.

"You always said that you hated your family for what they were. 'Wretched Blacks', you call them." Tonks stepped closer, worry and apprehension marring her face, her tone pleading. "Don't you see?You're becoming like them. You've changed. But it began earlier, after Harry and Dumbledore bargained for your release from Voldemort."

Feet came off the table and Sirius assumed a position more suited to reflect authority. "Are you implying I'm a secret Death Eater?"

"No! Of course not. Just... Merlin, Sirius, have you been reading Cygnus' memoirs?"

"No one can read them, dear. We don't know what's in them."

"We do," Tonks protested. "My grandfather was twisted and cruel. Whatever he wrote will be just as repulsive."

A brief silence hung between them, just long enough for Sirius to compose himself. He let his shoulders slacken, his fingers disentangled themselves from each other, he let out a breath through his nose. "I removed those journals because they were useless and dangerous. Poisoned blades were hidden in the bindings, almost took off three of my fingers." He raised a hand to emphasise this point. "Books I can't read and they try to maim me as well? I destroyed them."

He didn't believe his own lie. If Tonks detected the falsehood, she didn't press him for truth.

"All right," she said, her fingers curling on the backrest of a chair. "I was just worried. We're supposed to make the name Black mean something again, something good. Don't become like Cygnus, Bellatrix, and all the rest of them."

There was a distrustful note in her tone, but perhaps she'd decided this wasn't a fight she would win. She turned away to leave. The moment her back was to Sirius, he levelled his wand at her. The Memory Charm clung to their conversation like tar, seeping into Tonks' mind to erase it, then deeper, soothing the burgeoning suspicion she harboured. Sirius didn't smother it entirely – he didn't want to _hurt_ her – but he eased the feelings back far enough to leave Tonks merely wondering. Perhaps she could be persuaded to his line of thinking, perhaps not. This would buy him time to decide how to deal with her. First order of business would be to replace Cygnus' journals with convincing copies.

"Anyway, thanks for hearing me out," Tonks said, standing by the door with a wobbly, distracted smile on her face.

"Of course, cousin."

She offered a yawning goodbye and left. Sirius waited until the front door closed behind her before ascending the stairs. If Tonks was going to be trouble...

"Decisions, decisions," he sang quietly as he climbed to the second floor, which he had claimed exclusively for himself. The building couldn't hold a candle to truly senior estates like Malfoy and Mulciber manors before they had burned. He should look into finding better accommodations for the Silver Order soon.

His spartan study spanned the girth of the octagonal tower at the south-eastern corner. The darkened room was cast in a clear, warm light as the enchanted chandelier bloomed to life at his entrance. The décor was severe and funtional; bare stone walls, a desk, a chair, a pair of cabinets with a worktable between them. On that table, an arithmantic device puttered away relentlessly. Headmistress McGonagall had been kind enough to lend it to him. Dumbledore had left it, along with the rest of his eclectic collection, in the office at Hogwarts.

The device was an intricate array of gears, stuffed into a sphere of rune-engraved rotating brass rings. From that constantly shifting globe sprouted a series of clockwork arms equipped with magnifying lenses, claws that measured distance between their span, sharp quill tips and a dozen other instruments.

The sphere rested on a circular base between the two volumes of Cygnus Black's memories. The arms flew along the lines of unreadeable cipher. Cygnus' writings had been encoded, but this device broke such codes. Apparently Dumbledore had designed it himself. If the staccato of clicking and spinning gears were any indication, Sirius would be able to read the journals soon. Four days ago the gears had been motionless, even as the arms moved about vigorously. MgGonagall had assured him that as the device gained momentum, it would defeat the encryption faster.

"Don't worry, cousin. I'm not Cygnus Black," Sirius whispered, coming closer to admire the device at work. "I'm just curious..."

~~oOo~~

As months passed, Sirius had to admit to himself that the resentment for Sturgis Podmore he had enkindled in his heart was no longer there. He had been furious at first, but after a time, Sirius realised he had no clear idea what he was even angry about. Oh, there were valid reasons to distrust the mercenary, but there wasn't a spark to ignite true hate. Not when he had Snape to compare Sturgis to.

The damned Hit-wizard knew _something_ that Sirius felt in his gut was important. Not as important as some other things, though. While primarily busy with building up the Silver Order, he had sent out inquiries, sought clues, wrangled information from those unwilling to part with it, but Sturgis Podmore was fiendishly good at not being found. Camilla was the last reliable lead. Thus, armed with Mallory's information, Sirius made his way to the heart of Europe, where a number of largely autonomous territories were tenuously united under a single German banner.

The Chancellery sat smack dab in the middle of Berlin's wizarding quarter, a handsome gothic palace in the centre of a paved plaza, surrounded by a blade-topped fence. Passing one of the brick fenceposts, Sirius felt the thrum of wards. Aurors in bronze-brown robes stopped him at the gate.

 _"_ _Herr_ Black, yes?"

Sirius nodded and handed over an invitation – both in English and German – extended to him by his host.

The Auror scanned the document, apparently satisfied. "Yes, _sehr gut._ However, you won't be meeting the Chancellor here."

The guard captain sent for a cute young witch who introduced herself only as Anna, the Chancellor's personal assistant. "The Chancellor is expecting you at his home, Mr. Black." Her English was flawless.

Sirius allowed himself to be escorted through the district into a quaint neighborhood of isolated urban mansions. They would have been dwarfed by Malfoy Manor, but himself a resident of London, Sirius found the Chancellor's residence worthy of envy. Not too big, not too small, and with a respectable bit of lawn. There were no Aurors in sight, but by the owner's reputation, Sirius doubted the man required guards.

Anna excused herself once they were through the gate and hurried back to the Chancellery. Sirius ascended the front steps alone. The house-elf who opened the door looked somewhat strange in the getup reminiscent of typical goblin attire. Or perhaps Sirius was just used to seeing Kreacher in his preferred rags.

"Sirius Black. I'm expected."

The elf said nothing, but gave an enthusiastic nod and let him inside. The mansion's foyer was a harmony of vaulted ceiling, polished parquet, and panelled walls, all in wood. Four puffy sofas symetrically filled the grand space, giving an impression of hospitality. Sirius didn't wait long. He'd had just enough time to admire the room before the Chancellor arrived, descending the central staircase.

Jorgen Vanard seemed to ennoble the immediate space he occupied. Dark blue robes, slicked back salt-and-pepper hair, and a smile that stopped short of sharp eyes made a greater impression up close than seeing the man on the podium more than a year ago. A handshake was all it took to ascertain that yes, Sirius was in the presence of a wizard who could challenge Dumbledore.

"I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Black."

"Likewise."

Vanard gestured toward the stairs. "Are you in a hurry? I was just about to sit down for dinner."

Sirius weighed his options. He'd been looking for Sturgis for a year, an hour or two wouldn't make a difference. It couldn't hurt to make a friendly acquaintance of a wizard like Vanard.

"I'm in no rush."

"Splendid.I should like to ask you about the Silver Order, Mr. Black," Vanard said as they started upstairs. "I'm sure you can understand my curiosity."

"I'm sure you understand I probably won't answer most of your questions," Sirius replied. Vanard's smile only grew hungrier. Between it and the cold gleam in his unsmiling eyes, Sirius felt a sense of camaraderie with this man he'd only just met, the kind, he now realised, he'd been missing since Remus had left – the company of a dangerous man. There was something familiar about the Chancellor that Sirius couldn't pin down.

They sat down in a small, cozy room where a table to seat six was prepared for the two of them. House elves brought in platters of honey-glazed meats, roasted vegetables, and side dishes cooked in a dozen ways. Sirius wondered if the Chancellor dined like this every day, or if it was all staged for him. Regardless, the meal was all sorts of excellent. When desserts were brought in, along with a selection of cold and hot sweet drinks, Sirius thought back to those several nights he had spent with Voldemort. This dinner lacked the atmosphere of lethality, but the setting and the wizard facing him across the table were all too reminiscent of the Dark Lord.

They passed an hour eating and chatting, idly at first, then delving into more serious topics. Inevitably, they arrived at last year's conference and the agreement Vanard had forged to allow Voldemort's appearance before the Confederation.

"I don't make a habit of explaining myself to other people," Vanard said, brandishing a dessert fork. "But I understand you have... a personal history with Lord Voldemort."

"Not just me," Sirius replied, "but yes, I lay a more special claim than others, if for no other reason than Voldemort's desire to see my godson dead."

Vanard sat back, straight against the backrest. "Well. I suppose we would have got there eventually."

Sirius raised an eyebrow.

"Harry Potter," said Vanard.

"He's a talented young man."

"About to enter his final year of schooling, as I heard. I've no doubt Hogwarts will be well served to count him among her alumni."

Sirius sipped on his wine. "Durmstrang yourself, yes?"

Vanard nodded. There was clear pride in his expression. "Dark Arts aren't villified there. Although..." He snatched another pastry from a pile nearby. "I've been told Mr. Potter is no stranger to this field."

A silence fell between them while Sirius decided on an answer. His eyes fell on the smudge of ice cream left on his plate and he realised he'd made enough smalltalk. "With respect, Chancellor, I did not come here to talk about my godson. I've made a specific request in my letter–" He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Frowning, he looked back to Vanard. "Are you expecting someone else for dinner?"

"Not exactly." Vanard rose from his seat and opened the door, then stepped aside to let the new arrival through.

Sturgis Podmore walked in, his black coat of many pockets billowing around his ankles. His cheeks appeared a little more gaunt, his features sharper, his eyes darker, but he was still undoubtedly the same man. He carried himself with an air of _purpose_ that clung to him like a well-fitted cloak. Whatever he'd spent the last year doing, it hadn't been mercenary work.

Jorgen Vanard exchanged a knowing look with the newest guest. "I'll leave you alone, gentlemen. No doubt you have a lot to catch up on."

The moment the door closed behind Vanard, Sturgis turned to Sirius. "I heard you were looking for me. Well... Here I am."

Sirius took a long, painfully dragging minute to recover from the mild shock that had seized him, seeing the ghost he'd been chasing. "I don't even know where to start."

Sturgis took Vanard's seat. "First thing that pops into your mind."

The question left his lips before he consciously knew what he was about to say. "Why did you run?"

"I contest your employ of the word 'run'–"

"Don't," Sirius snapped.

Sturgis gave a drawn out sigh and stretched out one arm over the tabletop, fingers drumming on the surface. "When you confronted me, I had been thinking about leaving for a while. You just provided impetus."

"Were you going to leave that evening?"

"No," Sturgis admitted. "I probably would have stayed another week."

"So you ran because I asked you why let Grindelwald be killed."

Sturgis caught Sirius' look without evading. "Yes."

"You– what? You admit–"

"Yes, I wanted Grindelwald dead, and my reasons for that are my own." The hard line of Sturgis' set jaw seemed to cut this thread of conversation short. "Ask any other question, but you are not getting this particular answer, Sirius. Like you're so fond of saying... we all keep secrets."

"You understand that this won't win back my trust," Sirius said, lending his tone an edge.

"Sirius..." Sturgis' eyes lost all light for a moment, becoming cold steel. "If I cared to have your trust, I would have asked for it."

Two house elves popped in and out to clean up the table during the quiet moment that lingered between the two wizards. Sirius was keenly aware of whom Sturgis had just imitated.

"I told you this before, Sirius. We're not so different." Sturgis leaned closer, elbows on the table, his pose almost seductive. "I'm not you enemy. I really wish you would see that."

"But we're not friends."

"Oh, hardly."

Sirius breathed out through his nose. "Very well. You had your reasons to want Grindelwald dead and I know a lost battle when I'm in one. Why were you going to leave? Why abandon the Order of the Phoenix while Voldemort was still at large in Britain?"

Surprisingly, Sturgis smiled, though it was a cold smile, not unlike the one Sirius had seen earlier on Vanard. "I have been following your exploits with great interest, Sirius. The Silver Order... You've nestled into Dumbledore's niche quite nicely."

"Don't change the subject," Sirius interrupted.

"You didn't need me," Sturgis replied without missing a beat. "You had everything required to banish Voldemort."

"Banishment wasn't what we'd had in mind."

"If it had been at all possible to kill him then, I assure you I would have stayed."

Sirius almost spat out a retort on reflex, but paused, his mind racing, recalling the secrets divulged in Dumbledore's secret cache, the details and assumptions he'd scraped from his own experiences, and the brief encounter with Benedict Hessberg. There were pieces he was missing, pieces that – he was quite sure now – Sturgis had. And possibly one other person... someone not seen since the Battle at the Bone Mound, someone intimately involved in all of this.

"The last year..." Sirius said slowly. "Have you been tracking Mulciber?"

Sturgis looked idly away, towards the window.

 _He's stalling._

"We've crossed paths," Sturgis said, clearly displeased at Sirius' guess. "But that's not important."

"I'll decide if Mulciber is important to me, thanks."

"As I said..." Sturgis shifted in his seat again, pointedly ignoring the subject of Mulciber. "You had everything necessary to defeat Voldemort. I had done my part."

"Your part? You weren't there."

"And you weren't the one who sent Voldemort off to lick grievous wounds," Sturgis countered. "I taught Harry what he needed to know."

"Yes. You made him a killer."

"Not so," Sturgis protested hotly. Sirius frowned. He'd never seen the man object to something so readily. "No one needs to be taught killing, Sirius. I showed him _why._ And it will be that knowledge that'll make him a greater wizard than you or Albus Dumbledore could have imagined."

Whatever his motives, Sturgis' respect for Harry, at least, seemed sincere. Sirius wondered if Sturgis had been following Harry's 'exploits' as closely as his own.

"Why did you meet me?" Sirius asked. "You've not given me a single satisfactory answer and the Chancellor is obviously on your side. You could have remained a ghost."

"Firstly, I wasn't hiding from you Sirius, or anyone else. I've simply been very busy. You can ask Dumbledore, if you want."

"You've 'crossed paths' with him too? Is Snape with him?" Sirius growled the question.

Even in the moment it had taken Sturgis to answer, the tension had build up to erupt. "Yes."

 _"_ _Goddamnit!"_ Sirius leapt out of his seat, his fist coming down on Vanard's table like a hammer. Sharp pain lanced up his arm, but he paid it no mind. "Where are they? When did you see them?"

"I never saw Snape," Sturgis explained, almost apologetic. "Dumbledore confirmed they were travelling together, and believe this if nothing else – I would have brought him to you if I could."

Strangely enough, Sirius did believe it. "When? Where?"

"Romania, six weeks ago. They were after Lortannes Vergir."

Sirius grunted in realisation. Lortannes Vergir was the last of the three remaining lieutenants of Gellert Grindelwald. A Dark wizard who slinked through shadows, continuing his master's work. Single-handedly responsible for the strained wizard-goblin relations in the Balkans. If Vergir didn't know something about horcruxes, Sirius would eat Kreacher's liver raw. He couldn't imagine another reason for Dumbledore's interest.

"Thank you for telling me this," Sirius said, meaning it.

"Are you going to look for them?"

"Dumbledore will come back eventually. He said as much."

"I doubt Snape will return with him."

 _"_ _I know that."_

"Well, if you ever–"

"Why come here?" Sirius repeated. "If you weren't hiding, there was no reason to entertain my desires."

Sturgis gave a throaty chuckle. "I told you that when I walked in. I came because you were looking for me."

"What are you–"

"There are much more important things for you to spend time on than looking for me," Sturgis interrupted. "Know this – Voldemort is a common enemy. While he lives, you needn't worry about what I might do or not do."

Sirius tilted his head, regarding Sturgis critically. "And once he's dead?"

"Then..." Sturgis rose and approached the door. "...we shall see, I suppose."

The Hit-wizard left. A moment later, Jorgen Vanard returned, as coolly jovial as before. "Have you found the answers you sought, Mr. Black?"

"How do you know him?" Sirius asked instead. "There's something strange... about..."

"Yes, my brother can be strange."

Sirius stared. Vanard stared back.

 _Brother?_

"Whose idea was it to invite Voldemort to appear before the Confederation? What in Merlin's name is Sturgis planning?"

"That would spoil the surprise."

Vanard remained perfectly polite, but Sirius knew when he was being pushed out. The Chancellor offered a half-hearted endorsement of the Silver Order and Sirius couldn't tell if he wanted to say more, but his position prevented him, or if he'd rather have said nothing, but the politician in him dictated otherwise. All the same, Sirius didn't protest. Sturgis had the right of it – there were more important things to do. Perhaps he had needed Sturgis to tell him that.

The next day, Mallory lingered briefly after the officers' meeting had concluded, handing over a letter she assured him was from Sturgis. Inside the envelope were only a few sentences.

 _The Order of the Phoenix was the stabilising factor in Britain for decades. Now that role falls to you. I believe your Knights will play a vital role before everything is done._

I recognise that my silence may have been a mistake. Mallory will be able to contact me for you, but please limit inquiries to a necessary minimum.

Sturgis

Sirius studied the letter in the seclusion of his octagonal study. To his disappointment, it was precisely what it appeared to be, no hidden elements. He shoved it into a drawer and at that moment, Dumbledore's Crypto-Catcher stopped moving, plunging the room into silence.

He looked up, glaring at the device. "Took you long enough."

~~oOo~~

Every pair of eyes vied to catch his gaze. Sirius' attention shifted quickly between them, always away from the camera flashes. They were peppered throughout the crowd, professional and amateur reporters, and just people wanting to immortalise a historic moment. Lenses stared from every direction, blinding light flooding his vision with every click.

He had forgotten how much he detested dealing with the press. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to face them alone. Though Rita Skeeter worked for the Ministry, she owed her position to him and he had never let her forget it. A reluctant ally, but she knew how to handle reporters.

"There will be no questions at this time. The Minister will now make his statement," said Rita. She stepped away from the lectern set up in front of the Fountain of Magical Brotherhood – the favoured spot of Ministers to deliver good news. Bad news was announced in an enclosed chamber – it accommodated fewer people than the Atrium.

Fudge looked acceptably Ministerial as he took Skeeter's place. Sirius almost couldn't tell he was looking at a puppet dangling from strings. The statement was brief and to the point, according to Sirius' orders. If the public wanted more details, they could gorge themselves on the past week's editions of the Daily Prophet. Fudge spat out a handful of necessary facts and finally announced the agreement Sirius had hammered out in a private meeting with Ragnok Rakeharlaw.

Once the last word was out of Fudge's mouth, the relative peace was shattered by a flurry of questions drowning each other out. Rita gestured for the crowd to quiet down.

"The Minister and..." she spared Sirius a glance over the shoulder and he nodded, "...Knight-Marshal Black will now take some questions. Please remain orderly. Yes?" she asked, indicating a former colleague from the Prophet.

"What is the position of the Goblin Liaison Office on this?"

"The Office's operation is temporarily suspended, pending an inquiry into its recent dealings," said Fudge, pointedly avoiding the reporter's eyes. "For the moment, negotiations with Chief Rakeharlaw will be handled by myself and Knight-Marshal Black. The Ministry takes gross incompetence, such as was displayed by the Office in recent weeks, very seriously indeed."

Rita pointed out another reporter – an Irish fellow. The Prophet didn't have much of a market west of the Irish Sea.

"Was Director Plateau at all consulted regarding the negotiated debt payments?"

Sirius cursed the man, then himself. He should have forseen that Plateau's absence might draw questions like this one. _Don't fuck this up, Fudge..._

"Certainly," Fudge said. He looked confident enough, but his hand sneaked towards his bowler hat on the lectern in front of him. No doubt the cameras caught it. It was well-known that Fudge was prone to molesting his hat in times of stress. "Marcus Plateau was a vital member of the Ministry's delegation during these negotations–"

"That's interesting, Minister, because he was never once referenced in your statement or any statements you've made this week," the reporter cut in, drawing everyone's attention. "It appears as though all credit was ascribed to Knight-Marshal Black over there, which I find even more intriguing, because you've never been shy to exalt your own accomplishments, no matter how questionable they were. One might think you've surrendered yourself to the Knight-Marshal."

Sirius scarcely held himself back, more surprised than angry. The Irishman had known exactly what to say to cast suspicion on the Silver Order and Sirius personally. The reporter looked away from Fudge and towards Sirius, meeting his eyes head on. The pull of the Dark Touch Sirius felt just then, and the man's cold smile, gone in a blink, would have been enough of a clue, even if the reporter hadn't then slinked away through the crowd, taking no notes on Fudge's answer, his job done.

An enemy, certainly. Possibly a Death Eater. And he was walking away unimpeded, because Sirius couldn't afford to follow him and ignore the expectant crowd. His reputation was on the line, which meant that the Silver Order's reputation was on the line. The four minutes that followed were a sorry spectacle of long pauses and carefully chosen words, altogether unconvincing. Sirius left the Ministry chased by distrustful looks cast from under furrowed brows, briskly retracing the faux-reporter's steps. The man had taken the visitor's elevator up. Out in the street, Sirius looked one way, then another, up into the sky, and paused, brimming with quiet anger like an old caged lion.

He stepped into the middle of the empty street, his wand slipping into his grasp. There was a tingling energy in the air, a scent of recent magic.

"Keep your wand where I can see it."

Four Disillusionment Charms melted away from cloaked forms, four silver masks stared with inhuman expressions, wands pointed at Sirius.

"I _thought_ I recognised that voice," Sirius mused, turning slowly to look each of the masks in the eye slits. "If you're here, Rookwood, then I'm guessing Bellatrix is not – she wouldn't stand not being in charge. And if she's not here, then I don't imagine any of the Lestranges are, those three are inseparable. Let's see... Dolohov? Amycus and Alecto? There really weren't many of you left when Voldemort was chased out of Britain. How many silver masks has he had to give out?"

The mask to Sirius' left slid off into a puff of smoke, revealing the brutish face of Augustus Rookwood. "You seem awfully confident for being outnumbered four to one."

"I would say _you_ seem awfully confident, knowing who you're facing," Sirius retorted. He grinned when Rookwood's calm veneer cracked for a fleeting instant, unnoticeable had Sirius not been looking for it. "There are only two in the Inner Circle who stand a chance against me and neither of them is here. In fact, Mulciber has abandoned you entirely, last I heard."

Rookwood's mask reappeared. "The Dark Lord is not defeated, Black. You will hear from him soon enough."

The Death Eaters disapparated amidst a salvo of air-splitting cracks, leaving Sirius alone in the street, just as the first heavy drops fell from thunderclouds overhead. He spun around again, his cloak whipping raindrops in an arc around him, and he smiled coolly to himself, only now realising he had longed for this moment. Peace made his blood run like sludge. It was good to feel his heart beating lively again.

His good humour didn't last long. Rookwood was a worm unfit to be squished under Sirius' shoe, but he had still shaken the foundations of the new order Sirius was working hard to install. Perhaps he could have gone back and answered more questions, quell the suspicion – but he hadn't. He had no answers and, honestly, no fucks to give about the easily swayed masses. He would be back in their good graces as soon as the Prophet reported on something appropriately heroic. He returned to the Order's headquarters, locked himself in the study, and turned the page in volume one of Cygnus' memoirs.

The journals were a confession, a manifesto of deeply held convictions of the darkest mind to bear the name Black since Mordanis himself. Cygnus had made no great secret of his sympathies during the war. His contempt for muggles and their blood had found fertile ground when Voldemort had begun his march through Britain. Fortunately for everyone, the wretched Blacks very much adhered to the primacy of elders, and so Cygnus had been prevented from resurrecting Mordanis' legacy. By the time he'd come into power as the head of the family, there was no one left for him to command.

More than once Sirius paused while reading, wondering if Cygnus' dreams had somehow come to life through his nephew. The Silver Knights were once more operating in Britain and their – Sirius' – goal was very much unchanged. Take over, consolidate power. Were his reasons that much different than those of the Black Knight?

If Cygnus' arguments were to be believed, no, not really. Cygnus would be dancing on the table if he were alive to see what Sirius had done. Was Tonks right? Was he really reviving the wretched Blacks he hated so much? Was his morality any better than the tenets of blood purists? Before he had opened these journals, Sirius would have answered this question without hesitation. Now, he wasn't so sure.

However depraved Cygnus Black might seem judging by these pages, his crimes had never been realised beyond being written down. Sirius had already gone further than his uncle could have hoped.

He shut the book abruptly and tossed it onto the desk, giving it the evil eye to make sure it wouldn't attempt something nefarious, then leaned back in his chair, kicked his feet up onto the desk as well, and stared at the ceiling, sculpted with the chart of a night sky. The artwork was impossibly detailed and accurate, a degree of craftsmanship unattainable without magic. His eyes drifted lazily along the perimeter, finding familiar constellations he had studied all these many years ago at Hogwarts, and naming them without fail. Astronomy was a subject all Blacks were proud to master. Since Mordanis the Black Knight, the first to name his progeny after a star, the Blacks had always looked toward the night sky, their ambitions similarly boundless, their hearts just as dark.

Sirius paused, seeing Cygnus leaping out at him, and woke from the half-dream he'd drifted into. He couldn't even remember his uncle's face, but his voice rang out in his thoughts as sharp as ever, the throaty drawl that promised violence. The content of Cygnus' character had been lacking, but he had saved the Black fortune from collapse by dealing with Rakeharlaw's predecessor, turning a gaping financial hole into a rejuvenated fortune.

The journals exemplified Cygnus' prized ideals, the best of the worst the Blacks had to offer. Backstabbing, murder, and cheating were all encouraged in the service of the family name and your own agenda. Reading, Sirius heard the words recited in Cygnus' voice, like porous honey that clogged his ears, muting everything else. Sirius trusted himself enough to differentiate between the pragmatic passages and the mutterings of suppressed criminal urges, but Cygnus had had a way with words – the language remained steadily persuasive troughout.

Sirius picked up the book and flipped to the page where he'd left off, his eyes once again glued to the ink. "Harry must never get his hands on these journals," he muttered absently.

His leisure was interrupted again all too soon, this time by outside disturbance. Sirius ignored the first knock on his door, but then came another, and another, in unerring intervals. Growling, he locked the journal with its sister in the drawer behind a runic lock, and gestured haphazardly toward the door.

"Apologies, Knight-Marshal, but this couldn't wait," said Percy, not daring to cross the threshold without leave.

"What is it?" Sirius grumbled, waving the younger man inside.

Percy deposited a scroll on the desk. There seal had been broken and it unfurled a bit. Pressed into white wax was the image of a goblin's claw scratching numbers onto a Galleon, the personal seal of Chief Rakeharlaw.

"What does Ragnok have to say to the Silver Order?" Sirius asked.

"He's on a crusade, reclaiming old goblin properties across the Isles, even the meanest ruins. His scouts reported back that one such location has been appropriated by unknown trespassers. They didn't risk getting into a fight with wizards, but Rakeharlaw believes we might be interested in helping them take it – for a fitting reward, of course."

"He wants to take back some ruin? Alright, I'll bite. How much gold is he willing to part with?"

"No gold," Percy said, but the gleam in his eye told Sirius the reward was much more precious. "The scouts observed a wizard in Death Eater garb coming and going from the location. Rakeharlaw says we can claim anything useful we find there, barring gold."

Sirius almost leapt out of his chair. "Did the scouts specify what the Death Eater's mask looked like?"

"Silver, with black markings."

A grin cracked Sirius' face. "Knight-Commander, summon our best wands. I want them ready to travel in three hours."

Later, when the long summer day began turning to dusk, Sirius stood in an old feast hall – the only part of the small keep that hadn't been rendered unusable by the elements. He loathed to call the brief skirmish a battle. He had stood watch himself, waiting for the Inner Circle's Death Eater to arrive. When his prey had gone inside, Sirius had led Robards, Ribs, Shins, and Dellan against the enemy. The silver mask had been the only worthy opponent. The other six were a group of young witches and wizards, recruited to Voldemort's banner after his return. They couldn't be much older than Tonks and Tonks would have made short work of any of them.

"I don't know anyone by sight," Robards said, "but I think it's safe to say they'll be relatives of families associated with the Dark Lord."

They prisoners were sat up against a wall, gagged and bound, save for the one who'd been giving them orders. Sirius raised the silver mask in his hand to get a better look. The markings were intricate, covered most of the faceplate, and were utterly indecipherable. _I wonder if the Crypto-Catcher could work these out. McGonagall won't like me asking for it again..._

"Alecto Carrow is under guard at the headquarters," Robards continued.

"Who's watching her?" Sirius asked.

"Ribs, Grayson, and four others."

"Join them. I'll be there as soon as I can, but I have to deal with the goblins first. I don't want any trouble."

To his credit, Robards didn't question being delegated away to guard duty. Sirius strolled through the room. The other prisoners he could hand over to the Ministry. He didn't have the manpower to play jailer, and Robards would pass on whatever they spilled in interrogation rooms.

The hall was largely empty. Several pieces of mismatched furniture were burdened with what looked like a lot of forged documentation, some with remarkably convincing Ministry seals. Sirius browsed the stacks curiously, but without enthusiasm. Percy could take care of this. A unit of goblins was searching the crumbling ruins, bringing anything of interest to the hall. In short order they ascertained there was no lost gold anywhere, but a fair amount of other loot. Sirius kept the bargaining curt, invoking his agreement with Rakeharlaw.

"The ruin is yours. Everything else belongs to me," he insisted, to the visible displeasure of the commanding goblin. "That includes every last scrap of parchment."

"I see Gringotts forms there, falsified seals and signatures," the goblin snarled. "We have the right to investigate possible fraud."

Unwavering, Sirius barked an order at the Argents scattered about. "Collect the documents and the prisoners."

The goblin commander heaved heavy breaths, furious at the blatant display of arrogance. Ragnok would no doubt argue that 'gold' included 'anything in any way related to goblin gold', but Sirius cared little for Gringotts' fits. The threat of rebellion had hung in the air since Lucius' manipulations had taken Galleons out of goblin hands. If they started a fight, Sirius would spill blood until the despicable critters learned their place in the wizarding world, as they always did.

The goblins before him regarded his Knights with openly murderous looks, but they didn't dare raise their swords. Goblin steel or not, it was a foolish goblin that attacked a skilled wizard head on. His prize claimed, Sirius backed out of the hall briskly, leaving the keep's new masters to fume at their leisure.

Alecto, predictably, divulged nothing. The Inner Circle could be counted on to guard their minds with admirable skill, taught by their master. There could well be people among the Argents better suited to mind arts, but Sirius didn't trust any of them with whatever they would find. No yet.

He dismissed the Knights, though not before congratulating them on a job well done. Alecto would find herself in the wet embrace of the dungeon under Grimmauld Place. Kreacher was bound to love having some like-minded company.

"Knight-Marshal, one moment."

Percy had lingered, already arranging the forgeries into neat stacks for later review. They were in one of the unoccupied rooms on the ground floor, across the entrance hall from the long, dark room where the Order customarily met.

"What is it? Have you found something already?"

"So it would seem," Percy said, flattening out a scroll for Sirius to see. "Notice the signature at the bottom."

The cursive script was almost impossible to make out, but Sirius eventually read the name that instantly cast doubt.

"Keira Zabini," he recited slowly. "Why were Death Eaters forging something with her name on it? I thought she was uninvolved. Greengrass vouched for her."

"Aha," said Percy, tapping the signed name, his expression thoughtful. "This document isn't forged. It's quite genuine."

They shared a look of suspicious realisation. "Knight-Commander Weasley, what was a document with lovely Keira's signature doing at a Death Eater outpost?"

"I can't tell you that yet, Knight-Marshal," Percy replied, "but I hope Director Plateau isn't involved in whatever this is, for his own good."

Sirius tilted his head. "Did you ever believe the rumours that Keira Zabini kills her husbands?"

"Can't say I've ever given it much thought, sir."

"Let's hope Marcus isn't about to make her a widow."

~~oOo~~

Sirius felt a sting of longing as he looked out of the window. He had stood in this spot almost two years ago, waiting to spring a trap on Fudge in his own home. Remus had been with him then. He hadn't heard from the furry bastard in months. Supposedly he was tracking Greyback, but for all Sirius knew, Greyback could have been dead for months and Remus was snorting parthdust and mauling people in a dueling circuit in Asia. There were other possibilities, but those Sirius had forbidden himself to think of.

He wasn't alone in the dark, quiet residence. Fudge was seated at the desk, slowly but surely drinking himself into an apathetic stupor. The man's wand had rolled from the desk onto the floor.

Fudge had became a man with no influence the moment his title expired. Barty Crouch had employed the full breadth of his charm during the ceremony. Scrimgeour had looked like a man suffering from food poisoning when he bestowed the Wizengamot's mandate on his colleague, now just another of Sirius' pawns. Of course, Crouch wouldn't roll over like Fudge had. He would test the waters and Sirius' patience, see how much rope he would be given before the noose tightened on his neck. That, however, was a game for another day.

The Auror guard at the gate let a visitor through. Marcus Plateau carried himself with an air of self-importance, something he could afford now that Fudge was out of office. Marcus was cleverer than Sirius had thought. He had downplayed his wit when they had been co-conspirators and Sirus had fallen for the ploy. No more.

The document with his wife's signature had led Percy on a thrilling hunt through the Ministry's bureaucracy. Keira Zabini's money wasn't her money at all. It was Marcus' – and she had appropriated it, apparently without her husband's knowledge.

Only Marcus' money wasn't his either. The chief accountant had stolen more gold from the Ministry than Lucius had paid in bribes. No wonder the government could scarcely afford to make debt payments to Gringotts. The new deal Sirius had negotiated would divert funding from the Department of Mysteries and the DMLE, which Croaker and Bones had loudly protested. Percy's discovery had changed several key variables. Marcus had to be brought to heel.

The thief entered the building and was directed by a house elf to the study. Sirius cast a quick glance around the room. Both other occupants were satisfactorily harmless. One piss drunk, the other unconscious.

Marcus entered proudly, but stopped dead seeing who had been waiting for him.

"G'evninnng..." Fudge slurred, spilling the dwarven whiskey down his front.

Sirius' arm snapped forward like an attacking viper and the door closed behind Plateau. Hinges flashed brightly, signaling the runic array Sirius had prepared setting into place. Fudge's house elves were for the moment barred from the study.

"Marcus," Sirius said, his tone unforgiving. "You haven't been honest with me."

"I thought–" Plateau stammered. He began to reach for his wand, but Sirius shut the notion down with a thunderous stare.

"Sit down," he ordered, waving his wand again. A chair slid across the floor, undercutting Plateau. His wand leapt from his belt and into Sirius' waiting hand. He stepped toward Plateau as the curtains closed behind him, masking the study from the outside world. Fudge had passed out at his desk and began snoring.

"Knight-Marshal, I didn't know you–"

"Before anything else, let me say that I applaud your ingenuity," Sirius interrupted. "I wouldn't have thought it possible to embezzle that much money and not get caught."

Marcus paled. "Embezzle? What–I don't know anything about–"

"Don't waste your breath," Sirius said. "I have proof."

Plateau slackened in the chair, defeated. "What do you want?"

Sirius allowed himself a smile. Now he had his attention. "It appears that your wife is smarter still. She has been stealing from you the money you've stolen from the Ministry."

"Keira?" Plateau's eyes grew larger. "I don't understand."

"I would hope so," Sirius said. "Because if you did, it would mean you have participated in financing Voldemort."

Plateau's fingers clawed tightly at the armrests. _"_ _Merlin..._ I have never–I didn't, you have to believe me–"

"Frankly, Marcus, whether you knew or not is of little importance to me. From now on, you will do everything I say, when and how I tell you."

"Yes," Plateau agreed, nodding frantically, "yes, of course!"

"I'm pleased to hear that." Sirius grasped Plateau's wand in his right hand, weighing the balance. "Your wand. What is it?"

"Vine, vine and unicorn hair."

Sirius regarded the wand critically. It felt limp in his hand. Impotent. He gave it an experimental wave and, true to his unspoken command, the whiskey Fudge had spilled gathered itself from the desk and floated back inside the bottle. _Good enough._

"Look behind you, Marcus."

Plateau let out a raspy scream, seeing a Death Eater neatly tucked away in the corner. Sirius had made sure Alecto's robes and mask were spotless. The Crypto-Catcher had failed to discern the meaning of the mask's markings, but Sirius had found a use for it regardless. Only the Argents and the goblins knew Alecto had been captured at the outpost. Sirius couldn't safely keep her at Grimmauld Place, but it seemed wasteful to simply drop her off at Azkaban.

"I want to really impart the severity of your situation on you," Sirius said, drawing Plateau's attention back to himself. "Your fate is reliant upon my whims. Do as you're told, and no one needs to know about the murder."

 _"_ _Murder?"_ Plateau asked, incredulous. "What murder?"

Sirius raised the Director's wand toward Fudge. _"_ _Avada Kedavra."_

A few minutes later Sirius left Fudge's home unnoticed, having carefully staged the scene. By noon the Daily Prophet would have made Marcus Plateau a hero. The attention should keep him from attempting something stupid – like trying to outmanoeuvre the man holding his leash.

That night, Sirius retired calmer than he had been in weeks. Tonks was right. He was one of the wretched Blacks, but was that a bad thing? Uncle Cygnus had got one thing right. Sometimes, wrong things had to be done for the right reasons.


	2. PROLOGUE: Perspectives, Part 2

**PROLOGUE: Perspectives**

 **Part 2: Jervis**

All things considered, Voldemort's defeat at the Bone Mound was a good thing.

Jervis woke up in a puddle of his own bodily fluids. His robes had soaked through with piss, sweat, and blood, and the better part of an hour passed before he could sit up, but he did so with a clarity he hadn't enjoyed in a year. The wound Harry Potter had sliced in his gut was closed and hadn't festered. Manticore venom had burned the leftover poison from his blood and the antidote had got rid of the venom in turn. Field medicine was a bitch, but a bed at St. Mungo's hadn't been an option.

He shed the filth as best as magic allowed, though he couldn't help still feeling dirty. There was no replacement for a proper bath. His Death Eater's robe and mask he left on the floor, and in a brisk step left one of the many abandoned buildings dotting the shadier end of Knockturn. Weak as he still was, he moved carefully. This was lawless territory. Frankly, he was lucky some diseased squib hadn't gutted him in his sleep.

He peered under the left sleeve—the Dark Mark had paled just a shade, though to an untrained eye it would still be black as coal. Voldemort wouldn't be out of it for long, his window was limited. First order of business, however, called for a visit to every lowlife's fauvorite haunt.

Brody gave no sign that he'd even heard him mutter Greyback's name, but Jervis moved on without waiting for overt confirmation. He put up the hood of his cloak and stepped through the disguised door in the bathroom. It was early enough in the day that the place was largely empty. The fights rarely started before there was a sizeable crowd to place bets and drink and make Brody richer—even though the old goblin never seemed to spend any of his gold. He certainly wasn't using it to stock the bar out front.

"Can I get you anything?" a pretty witch asked, sauntering over with a tray of tall glasses.

"A private room. Number eight would be splendid," Jervis rasped. His throat was dry as dust.

A lanky werewolf came over—one of Brody's few permanent staff—and led Jervis to the desired room, insquiring how he planned to pay for it.

Jervis didn't respond. Clearly, the werewolf took it as suspicious. His mistake was going for the wand instead of using his curse-given strength. The lad was asleep before he slumped to the floor. The crowd was rare, but even in the side hallway, someone would find him before long. Jervis quickly dismantled the enchanted lock and slipped inside.

Numbers one through ten were the better rooms, which meant they were reserved for the fighters or otherwise for a steeper fee. A cozy space to cool off and sew up the wounds. Jervis sent the table careening into a wall and the rug to peel back from the floor. Two planks in the middle bore a tiny mark each—an 'X', inoffensive enough that anyone else would take it for an ordinary scrape.

He retrieved his emergency kit from under the floorboards, returned the room to previous condition, and stepped over the knocked-out werewolf on his way out. If anyone had put together that the same man was now leaving with a bag on his shoulder, they didn't dare bring it up or just didn't care.

Out in the street, Jervis bitterly ground his teeth. Black had squeezed the goblins damn well. Mulciber gold wasn't his anymore. Not a fortune by any means, but a tidy sum that would have seen him through a few months, perhaps a year, before he had to find new income. The most precious time was now, while Voldemort was busy putting himself back together. Fuck. He shouldn't have kept that stash in Mulciber Manor. Then again, how could he have predicted the whole damn thing would go up in flames?

Decided on his course, he carefully stumbled into a passerby, offering a throaty apology as he snapped a hair from the wizard's head. He didn't look forward to becoming a round-bellied, red-faced impotent, but he was anxious to get to safer shores.

The Polyjuice Potion worked its muscle-tearing magic in a dark spot as he shook violently, braced against a filthy wall. He apparated to the docks, then dragged his new fat lump into the Dungeon Keeper. The old clientele had already returned and settled into favourite spots. Jervis couldn't tell there had even been a battle here.

"Afternoon, miss Mallory," he muttered, adjusting ill-fitting robes. "I find myself in want of a trip across the Channel."

"Have we met before?" the girl asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Jervis spotted her brick-like associate, Sammy, frown and reach for a short, thick wand.

"We must'ave, aye? Elseways how wouldda know to come'ere?"

A short but tense moment sparked between them, but she relented and waved him into the curtained alcove. "Sammy, cover the bar."

Jervis could tell she was uncomfortable wih him in the confined space and he admired the deft touch with which she palmed her wand behind her back. Deprived as he was of his usual speed in the fat disguise, she might even be faster. Jervis did what he could to seem non-threatening and politely forked over the handful of coins for the portkey, depleting his already modest supply.

He arrived at the Keeper's sister location in the underbelly of wizarding Paris and swiftly left the establishment to look for a quiet spot where he could wait out the rest of the hour. Forty-odd minutes later he emerged himself again, but not quite as free as he'd thought.

Voldemort hadn't come himself, but he'd sent the best he had.

"Be as clever as want," Bellatrix purred, caressing her left forearm with the tip of her crooked wand, "but you're still one of us."

"I'm planning on amending that very soon," Jervis replied evenly, eyeing the half-circle assembled before him. They had foregone the cloaks and masks. Infrequent pedestrians gave the group a wide berth, but none recognised them as Death Eaters. Voldemort had never gained a significant foothold on the continent.

"Oh don't be such a brat," Bellatrix said sharply. Time under Snape's care had done her wonders, though she hadn't completely shaken the shroud of Azkaban. "I can't fathom why, but he's willing to forgive you. Do the smart thing."

Jervis shook his head. "Tell him something from me, will you? I'm done being a slave. He's found another. I'm not going back."

Bellatrix's face clouded over. "Slave? Another? Stop babbling insanities, Jervis."

Jervis sighed. "Do you really want to have it out here?"

"We'll do whatever it takes."

"Numbers aren't everything, Bella. I don't have to beat you to escape."

Her wand hand moved just an inch and for a moment he thought she really was going to start a fight.

"How fares the Dark Lord? Is he strong enough to defend himself if I come for him?" he threatened. "I saw what Potter did to him. Can he even walk?"

On his best day, he would take his chances with this lot with a smile. He was far from his best and he hadn't the foggiest idea of Voldemort's present condition, but thankfully, his bluff appeared to have worked. Bellatrix faltered, enough for the others to remember just who was the most dangerous Death Eater.

"You wouldn't dare," Bellatrix hissed, her eyes burning with hatred.

"Wouldn't I?" Jervis smiled. "Have you ever known me to back down, Bella?"

Their standoff continued until Rudolphus leaned closer to his wife and whispered something, too quiet for Jervis to hear.

"You will regret this when the Dark Lord is restored," Bellatrix spat, and turned slowly away to walk down the street, out of sight. The others peeled away one by one until only Greyback remained.

"Why do this?" the werewolf growled the question. "Why leave?"

"Why stay?" Jervis shot back. Of course Fenrir would choose _now_ to be talkative.

"He's done a lot for my wolves. You know this."

"You're a fool if you still think they're yours. The Dark Lord takes everything and gives nothing back."

Greyback squared his shoulders, as if preparing to leap. He must have noticed Jervis' hand twitching. "I'm not going to attack you. I'm not an idiot," he said. "But why now? All these years, you've never questioned him. What changed?"

"You have it all wrong, Fenrir. I betrayed him years ago, but only now I'm able to act on it."

Greyback crossed his arms. "Still haven't told me why."

Jervis moved toward the mouth of the alley where his old comrades had cornered him. Greyback didn't stop him when he walked past. He patted the werewolf's arm. "It's a long story. If you're still alive by the end, maybe I'll tell you."

Jervis left, not sparing a single glance. He was no prophet, but he didn't see Greyback making it through the coming storm. If he had to kill the wolf himself to get to Voldemort, so be it. A friend wasn't worth one's soul.

~~oOo~~

Old habits died hard. Jervis slipped back into the skin of a mercenary easily enough. However, the need to constantly relocate wreaked havoc on any plans he made. The more lucrative contracts coming his way he had to turn down, because they were a time investment he couldn't afford. He was overqualified for smaller jobs—few were willing to fork over the gold when a cheap novice would do just as well. What coin he scraped together went towards renting rooms by night, which ate cruelly into his purse. Mercenary life didn't favour people with other things to do.

The criminal underworld of Europe shivered with whispers. Voldemort's defeat in Britain had brought him low and he was still licking his wounds months on. Regardless, the Dark Lord had allies and gold, two things Jervis sorely lacked. In hindsight, perhaps leaving when he had hadn't been the brightest idea. Death Eaters and hired wands continued coming after him. More annoyance than danger, but he felt his luck wearing thin. One of these days, Bellatrix would manage to sneak in while he slept and slit his throat.

Come Halloween, his patience had run out.

He abandoned all other pursuits and waited. A week in, he sprang the trap. His would-be captors came in force, fifteen wands in all, securing the immediate surroundings of a dingy inn. He sat by the window for a good hour as the night fell over the town. Three silver masks—all the Lestranges—headed inside, no doubt to rough up the innkeep before they set to task. Wand in right hand, dagger in left, Jervis apparated outside, precisely behind one of Bella's hired goons.

The witch spun around, but Jervis knocked her wand aside. In an instant, her eyes glazed over with fear. "No, please—"

"Should've thought about it earlier, girlie."

He slid the enchanted dagger into her abdomen and split her from belly to chest, then spun and apparated again before she hit the paving stones.

The street became an execution ground. Jervis felt a lethal thrill fill his chest as he put down the mercenaries and Death Eaters the Lestranges had brought along. Ten bodies all told—the last two fled when they realised what was happening. Jervis grinned, kneeling over a poor fucker who couldn't have been a day over twenty. He had probably imagined an easy payout. Fifteen to one? Who wouldn't get hired on with such odds?

Dagger dripping blood, Jervis waited out in the open. The Lestranges came forth to meet him wands raised. They didn't waste time for words and neither did he. Bellatrix gave it her all, but Voldemort had made a mistake in allowing Jervis to recover from the wounds of the Bone Mound. When all was said and done, half the street was being ravaged by flames, the town not so quaint anymore.

Jervis lodged the dagger snugly between Bellatrix's ribs and pulled her up to a sitting position, deligthing in her screams.

"All this," he said, breathing heavily, "because you wouldn't leave me alone."

Her husband and brother-in-law were smeared across the street, along with the unlucky idiots they'd hired.

"The Dark Lord will have your head for this!" Bellatrix snarled between cries of pain.

"The Dark Lord is still recovering, or else he would be here," Jervis retorted. "I doubt he'll send more hunters. The Inner Circle keeps shrinking. He has no one left who could challenge me."

He kept Bellatrix alive long enough to have her fetch him a bag of gold from the goblins. When she handed over the small fortune, he took her south. He couldn't rationally justify expending such effort, but he wanted to send a clear message.

Casa d'Agrattsi sat perched on one of the many islands dotting the Adriatic Sea. Sandstone walls and lush vegetation clashed terribly with whom Jervis knew to be living there. This tranquil residence seemed like the last place Lord Voldemort would inhabit. Odd, that such a man would settle for haunting another's home instead of building his own.

He abandoned Bellatrix on the nearest neighboring island, along with her wand and ten broken fingers.

"You will burn," she said quietly, seething at him from where she lay against a boulder.

"Perhaps," he replied. "But it won't be Voldemort who burns me."

~~oOo~~

The Dark Lord sent no more hunters, but it was a meagre victory. With each passing day Jervis felt the Dark Mark regain power as its maker's strength returned. Armed with the knowledge he'd accumulated since the cup of Helga Hufflepuff had been entrusted to him, he tried every spell and ritual he could think of or hastily design himself to destroy his Mark, to no 's spell seeped ever deeper into his flesh, jealously claiming domain over it. The steady hum of nervousness grew louder, until it bloomed into a panic that threatened to seize him and make him scurry back to kiss the Dark Lord's feet. Sooner or later, Voldemort would come for him himself.

Jervis wrestled with his latest idea for days before he conceded. He wasn't keen on mutilating himself, but he'd rather keep his life than his arm.

He made his way into Ukraine while Eastern Europe was in the grip of winter. Were it not for magic, he didn't think he could stand remaining here for more than a day. Continental weather didn't agree with him. He was still a fair ways away from the Urals, but close enough that the wilder influences of Asia were prevalent. The wizards here were a little rougher, goblins a little less willing to deal with them, and werewolves a little more resistant to the lure of a united tribe, a philosophy whose greatest prophet was Greyback. There was less of a sense of community. People were guarded and wary of strangers—a perfect hunting ground. No one would miss a friendless werewolf.

Jervis selected his victim with care. Not that he didn't enjoy a good bit of bloody work, but violence for the sake of violence rarely offered satisfaction. He liked having a reason to come after someone, however flimsy.

He commandeered an aging muggle bunker, laid down the wards, and drew his subject in, promising a remedy to the hacking cough that had the man spitting out his lungs bit by bit. The poor chap had seen a gallery of local healers, none of whom could even identify what was wrong with him. Jervis suspected a curse.

"Here. Down on your back," he uttered in something approaching Ukrainian, leading the man to a steel table along the wall. The werewolf looked at him, eyes clouded over with confusion. Damn it. Weren't all Slavic languages supposed to be quite similar? No matter.

Jervis swiped his wand almost carelessly, but his magic responded with precision. The door slammed shut and heavy bars slid into place, sealing the room off from the world. The werewolf, though weak, apparently registered sudden danger, but Jervis was on him before the man could move. One flick, two, three—and the werewolf was strapped to the table, calling for help.

"Yes, _scream,"_ Jervis said, tightening the straps manually—unnecessary, but wonderful for intimidation. "No one is coming." He snapped his fingers and the bunker changed. Old peeling maps plastered on the walls became arithmantic diagrams, the broken bulb bloomed to life, spilling cold, clinical light. The cracked desk galloped across the room, transforming as it went into a pristine workstation, its drawers spitting out instruments, a bronze cauldron, and a stack of ingredients.

"It's really nothing personal," Jervis explained, speaking calmly between the werewolf's cries. "I just needed a body no one would miss and you were the first I found."

His cheerful, homicidal demeanor cracked for the space of a blink and he clutched his left arm. The Dark Mark was acting up. Voldemort was almost upon him. He wasn't strong enough to manipulate the Mark yet, but surely he was already mounting a search. Jervis shook off the sting of pain and got to work. No time to waste. First, anchor the flesh.

"You see," Jervis said, laying out a portable potioneer's toolkit, "I needed someone already afflicted with a Dark curse. The Mark needs something to latch onto."

He reached for a silver knife and split the werewolf's left sleeve up to the elbow. Careless in his haste, he nicked the skin, close enough to the vein to give him pause. Blood welled up in the cut immediately, bubbling, almost boiling, before turning black and searing the incision with a scab that looked like burnt meat.

"Oops," Jervis muttered, patting his subject's cheek. By now, werewolf had surely gathered that there was a silver knife inches away from him. He'd stopped screaming when he felt the metal, instead eyeballing the blade, eyes wide with fear. "My mistake." Jervis cast a hesitant look at the Dark Mark. The symbol seemed to ripple on the skin, as if alive, reaching out to its creator. "This is going to suck."

The diamond-sharpened blade slid in so smoothly that Jervis almost didn't feel it—until he did. The werewolf's silent terror was the only painkiller available. Imbibing any unnecessary potions would taint the process, invite failure, and perhaps punishment. Pain was a price he had to pay. Such was the nature of ritual magic.

Silver crawled beneath the Dark Mark and poked through skin on the other side of it. Jervis paused, his breathing laboured, his arm on fire, but only long enough to gasp and hold his breath again. With a deliberate push and a muffled cry, he sliced through muscle and, like fileting a fish, yanked the knife free. One more sharp cut and a fat piece of flesh fell from his arm, leaving behind a ghastly wound. He breathed out a raspy growl, staring at the gore in fascination while it pulsed painfully.

Ignoring the human cutlet momentarily, Jervis cut a preprepared rune array into the werewolf's arm, then laid the piece of his own over it. He flipped the knife around and pierced the Mark and the silver-burned flesh underneath it, pinning his own to the victim's. He screamed with the werewolf, acknowledging the wound he'd carved, a wound that would kill him if he didn't complete the ritual swiftly.

"Anchor the mind," Jervis ground out, sweating profusely. _"_ _Imperio!"_ The werewolf, terrified beyond his wits, surrendered immediately.

Lastly, anchor the soul. Jervis lacked the crucial bits of knowledge to make a horcrux for himself, but murder would be sufficient. Few bonds were tougher than that between victim and killer. Send off one soul, splinter one's own—taking another's life forged an intimate connection.

 _"_ _Avada Kedavra."_

Flesh, mind and soul so intertwined, Jervis laid an open palm on the dead man's chest and recited the words to seal the spell. Magic surged wildly through the room, depriving him of breath, and he saw the ritual realise itself—the piece of him sank into the dead wizard's arm. The Dark Mark turned an angry red for a moment, as if freshly branded, then paled to the usual coal black. Satisfied, Jervis faced the worktable, frantically grabbing at the bottle of dittany—he'd lost a lot of blood already, he had to seal the wound...

Pain like he'd never felt lanced up from the tips of his fingers to where the Dark Mark used to be. The skin around the wound bubbled and rippled as his blood turned black, tainting flesh into a sick, decaying grey. It spread quickly and his entire arm stiffened to immobility. Jervis almost gave into panic—what the hell was happening, how to reverse it?—but the progression stopped at the shoulder. He opened up his sleeve higher. His left arm had turned a dark grey colour, skin had wrinkled as if dry and emaciated, fingernails had yellowed like old parchment, the joints felt stiff and unwieldy. The spot from which he'd carved the Dark Mark gave off a putrid smell of dead flesh.

His arm was dead. Voldemort could no longer track him, but the price seemed unfairly steep. Jervis experimentally poked the left arm with the silver knife—and felt nothing. He flexed his dead fingers and curled them around the rim of the table—steel bent to fit his hand like clay. The initial shock began passing and Jervis let out a deep chuckle. He had made his arm into that of an inferius.

There was no feedback of any kind. No pain, but no touch either. No sense of strength. He reached for his dagger and snapped it in two simply trying to get a good grip. He pinched himself and drew blood, yelping in pain. His living flesh reacted, but dead flesh didn't know the strength of its grip, nor when it brushed against the fabric of the robes. He closed his eyes and realised he couldn't tell if he was moving the left arm or not. There was a limb attached, but if he didn't see what he was doing with it, he felt like a one-armed man.

As he tested the limits of his new circumstance, he realised, with cold suddenness, that he would never be able to fight like he used to. The literal dead weight was throwing off his balance. He had traded fighting Voldemort's hunters for perhaps not fighting at all. He cast a longing look at the dead werewolf on the table and raised his wand, but then lowered it. No, he wouldn't act the cripple. He wasn't truly free while Voldemort lived. Limitations had never defined him, not when the Dark Lord had held reign over his every thought, and neither while his life had depended on following orders. This one wouldn't either.

He returned to the desk and set water in the cauldron to boil over a fire. With his newfound undead strength, he ground dried tentacula leaves into a fine dust and sprinkled it richly, then poured in viper oil. The first stage brew would simmer for a while before horned owl talons needed to go in. Enough time to dump the Mark-bearing werewolf somewhere for Voldemort to find.

"Come along, friend," Jervis said, hoisting the corpse by spell. "The Dark Lord will be anxious to see you."

~~oOo~~

Jervis knew, rationally, that potioneering had earned its reputation for being a famously difficult discipline, but he'd never come across an obstacle he couldn't scale if he put his mind to it. Clearly, potionmaking required more than just determination.

He could follow instructions—he wasn't an idiot—but altering a potion was a different thing entirely. Snape had simply concoted this thing, never sharing his research notes. If there had been any, they had probably been lost in Fiendfyre at the Bone Mound. He resorted to a long, frustrating process of trial and error. Failure meant serving himself up to Voldemort on a platter. The first attempt simply fizzled out into a cloud of steam that filled the bunker in seconds. The second attempt left little of the bunker besides rubble. He'd almost splinched himself apparating out because of the damn dead arm. Thankfully, he'd stashed Bellatrix's gold elsewhere.

A week into the experiments, he decided to relocate. Voldemort still hadn't left his new lair, but he'd sent Greyback out this time, who was a much better hunter than Bellatrix. Greyback had brought no backup. Voldemort likely didn't want to throw more bodies at the problem with no guarantee of success.

January, as it turned out, had been the mild winter month this year. February ushered in cold winds from the east, chilling Europe to the core. Jervis was thankful for the dominant fashion in Ukraine. Long sleeves hid his left arm. Polyjuice was hard to acquire quickly and he was hardly going to hunker down for a month to brew himself a batch. His current disguise relied on charms and transfiguration, to which his dead arm was resistant.

"Another," he said, raising a hand to indicate his glass. The barkeep apparently didn't speak English, but the gesture was universal. Jervis slid a sickle down the bar while his glass was refilled. He downed the shot in one gulp and grimaced. Whatever they were adding to Firewhiskey around here was disgusting, but a hell of a kick.

He sat askew on the stool, watching the door. The pub had two things of note: an undecipherable name and a particular clientele. The eye was naturally drawn to a map of south-eastern Europe covering one of the walls, constantly self-updating with notes pinned to particular locations: a jobs board. The pub was crawling with mercenaries. Jervis had paid good coin to ascertain that one of them would be here today.

The door opened to admit a tall, slick-haired wizard whose entrance silenced all conversations for a moment. He stepped inside and the gossip resumed, now doubtlessly concerning the new arrival. The barkeep visibly perked up and slapped the polishing rag onto his shoulder. "Sturgis! The usual for you?"

"So you _do_ speak English, you pissy fucker," Jervis muttered.

Sturgis shook his head and walked to the middle of the room. "I'm going to make this short. I know the contract originated here. Do yourselves a favour and point me toward whoever it is that wants me dead."

 _That's my cue._

"Over here," Jervis said, raising his voice over the murmur of whispers. "That was me."

Sturgis looked at him as one would at an exceptional idiot—which one would have to be to put out a kill bounty on Sturgis Podmore.

"You must be new in this business," Sturgis said, his tone almost pitiful.

"Old hand, I'll have you know," Jervis replied, tapping his glass with a finger for another refill. The barkeep ignored his request, instead staring in silent anticipation, like everyone else in the pub. No doubt they were expecting a swift murder. "Shall we take this outside?"

Sturgis raised an eyebrow. "I couldn't refuse a dying man's last request." He gestured towards the door. "After you."

He might be crippled, but his instincts hadn't waned because of it. As soon as the pub's door closed, he blocked Sturgis' stunner in a half-spin to face him. "What an underhanded move."

Sturgis cocked his head, eyes narrowing. "Who are you, really? Few would be foolish enough to put a price on my head."

"I just wanted to meet. Seemed like a good idea to get you to come to me."

"I've worked out that much myself," Sturgis retorted. "Show your face—or we can still duel, if that's what you prefer."

Jervis removed the disguise. His robes shrunk back to their usual, snug fit.

Sturgis' face lost all emotion. "What happened to your hand, Mulciber?"

"Death," Jervis replied. "You can put that away," he added, sheating his own wand. "If I wanted to fight, I'd have set a trap. My, ah, _condition_ puts me at a disadvantage in direct confrontations now."

Sturgis' face revealed nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. Jervis waited patiently, the other wizard's wand still trained on him.

"It's not safe to talk here."

"Nowhere ever is," Jervis said. "Not while the Dark Lord lives."

Sturgis approached, maintaining his stony expression, and reached for the dead arm, paused, and offered his right hand instead. Jervis grasped it and followed the apparition. They landed in the middle of a field, knee-deep in snow. There was a farm road on one side and a steadily sloping hill on the other, topped with a grove of naked trees.

"Talk."

Jervis didn't mince words. "We both want Voldemort dead."

"That doesn't make us allies."

"But we don't have to be enemies."

Sturgis had his hands in his pockets. It wasn't carelessness. A wizard like him was never careless. Jervis took the gesture as he would have meant it himself—an acknowledgment of interest.

"We can kill each other when he's gone. And we both know why he can't be killed right now."

"Do we?" Sturgis asked. "What do _you_ know?"

"Horcrux." Jervis grinned, seeing Sturgis' mask crack for a second. "I know a lot. Not all of it."

"Then what use are you to me?" asked Sturgis. "Because I know it _all."_

"I'm not a witless goon, Podmore. You can't possibly tell me you have people you can trust with this. I won't babble because it gains me nothing. And we can do more working together than against each other."

Sturgis didn't seem convinced. There was a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips, but it wasn't a friendly one. It was malice in disguise. "You've killed a lot of people, Butcher. I had friends among your victims."

"Like Regulus Black?"

The reaction was instantaneous. Jervis felt a wave of nausea squeezing his gut, though Sturgis didn't appear to have moved. He stood still with hands in his pockets, but his expression was hollow, that of a killer. "Don't test me, Mulciber."

Jervis climbed back up to his feet, brushing snow off of his pants. "So you have a few tricks up your sleeve. So do I."

 _"_ _What do you want?"_

"Voldemort," Jervis said matter-of-factly. "Dead."

For a second Jervis was expecting Sturgis to ask about his reasons, but the question never came. Instead, Sturgis pointed with his chin at Jervis' left arm. "So what happened there?"

"I had to get rid of the Dark Mark."

"Bah. Is that even possible?"

"It is," Jervis said, raising his hand for Sturgis to see. "For a price."

Sturgis exhaled and inhaled slowly. "You want Voldemort dead... but he can't die unless you die first. So... how did you learn about the soulcatcher?" Before Jervis could respond, Sturgis raised a hand to silence him. "Wait, don't tell me. Agrattsi is under Voldemort's boot—of course, you must have seen the design, the part Agrattsi has."

Jervis reached into his robe, withdrew a sealed scroll, and tossed it to Sturgis. "It's only a copy, but it's better than nothing."

"You realise that this," Sturgis raised the scroll higher, "presupposes I care to use it in the first place."

"I'm not the only one," Jervis said. "The Dark Lord presently has five living horcruxes."

Sturgis paced a circle in the snow, returned to the start, and only then broke the silence. _"_ _Five?"_

Jervis gave a throaty chuckle. "I'm wondering myself which ones you know about and which ones you don't."

"Give me the names," Sturgis demanded, stepping closer.

"Not so fast, Podmore. I'll tell you everything once we strike a deal. But trust me—"

 _"_ _Right."_

"—you'll want to know them all before you set to annihilating Voldemort."

"Sacrifices are necessary. Some deaths are inevitable."

"Spoken like a righteous man."

Sturgis grunted in annoyance. "I don't like having my words turned against me."

"Then let's shake on it and get out of this fucking cold."

Jervis imagined the cogs turning in the other man's head, slowly but surely coming to a decision. Sturgis came closer, offering his hand once again.

"We''ll need a witness to perform the spell."

 _Witness? He can't mean—_

"Come, Mulciber. We'll seal this unholy alliance in blood and magic."

 _Of course he does._ The Unbreakable Vow. That wasn't how he'd pictured the day going, but this had gone too far. Dissent now would spell his death. _Let's hope this works._

~~oOo~~

As promised, Jervis traded five names for a vow. Sturgis obliged to refrain from hostility while their tentative agreement held, but the implication was clear—the moment Voldemort was dealt with, they would be enemies again. Before he had crippled himself, Jervis would have faced the mercenary on any battlefield, but now the balance of power had shifted.

"Are you sure about this woman?" Jervis asked, leaning over the cauldron to sniff the potion.

Sturgis shrugged. "I wouldn't drink it myself. Then again, I don't need it."

"I don't _need_ it either," Jervis said, "but Grindelwald never tried to control _you."_

"She's one of the premier potioneers of Europe. Drink, don't—I don't care." Sturgis made to leave the room. "I'll be by the fire when you're ready."

Left alone, Jervis meditated over the potion, comparing it to the faint memory he had of Snape's creation. This looked nothing like it. He'd seen some of the same ingredients go in the cauldron, some even in the identical order and prepared in similar ways, but differences were just as numerous. Snape's potion had allowed the horcrux to assimilate quicker. This was supposed to suppress one.

"Fuck it. What's the worst that could happen?"

What indeed. He had been in the deepest of holes before. He had climbed out once, he could do it again. He filled a glass and downed it in one gulp. Several dragging minutes later, he felt no different. Voldemort's presence pressed on his mind no more than on the mildest days.

In the adjacent room, Sturgis busied himself with his notebook, settled snugly into an armchair. Jervis had never seen him with any sort of map or other document to suggest the depth or breadth of his plans, but he would often scribble in that notebook. He'd tried sneaking a glance on more than one occasion—Sturgis seemed supernaturally perceptive of prying eyes, always able to angle the pages just out of line of sight. Seeing Jervis approaching, Sturgis slid the notebook into a pocket beneath the lapel of his coat.

"Take a seat."

Jervis did.

"How's the arm?"

Jervis wiggled his fingers. The same potioneer who had prepared the potion had spent a good week studying the limb. "It doesn't stink anymore."

"Any feeling at all?"

"None."

Sturgis tilted his head. "I advise particular care in the bathroom, then."

"Are we done with the fucking inquisition?"

A momentary narrowing of Sturgis' eyes was the only sign of disapproval. "So far you've been taking advantage of my hospitality. Time to make yourself useful."

Jervis took a long moment before answering. He had imagined this alliance as something more akin to a partnership. And yet, once again he found himself taking orders from another wizard. Perhaps that was his lot in life, decided the moment he had laid a hand on an unassuming golden cup.

"Where am I going?" he asked after a pause.

Hours later, he stepped out of the Floo in a tavern sitting at the bottom of a mountainous valley. The only person in sight was a witch behind the bar. He walked across the room and threw open the door only to catch a faceful of freezing wind and dusty snow. _On second thought, a drink for the road first._

He slammed the door shut and lumbered over to the bar. The frumpy witch sat on a tall stool behind the counter, face hidden behind a newspaper. Jervis didn't understand a word of Romanian, but Fenrir's uncouth profile spoke for itself. Clearly, the werewolf found time to evangelise about his vision of a united clan in between carrying out orders. Jervis wondered if Voldemort had given up on finding him yet.

"English?" Jervis asked. The witch's newspaper dropped just enough to reveal her eyes. "Right, of course not." He cycled through whatever language he spoke at least a few words of, none of which was Romanian. Frustrated, he pointed at a bottle above the witch's head. She flicked her wand and a glass was poured.

Three glasses later, he felt buzzed enough to brave the blizzard. He'd have to apparate short distances to probe the extent of the wards. Vergir's castle reportedly sat between two peaks at the southern tip of the valley. The locals had forged a symbiotic coexistence with the wizard. The Ghost of Grindelwald didn't bother them and they didn't bother him.

The enchantment weaved into his cloak was an imperfect shield against the storm. It had been long established that Lortannes Vergir reined over the valley in more ways than those readily spotted. Jervis could swear that wind was spitefully hurling sheets of snow at him. Extreme weather manifested more strongly the closer he got to the castle. Soon, he was trudging through hip-deep mounds in between apparitions, bracing against gale force gusts that would flip him head over arse if the snow and soaked clothes weren't weighing him down.

Over two hours the twilight had turned into a dark night, illuminated only by what little starlight reflected off of the snow. Jervis prodded the wards from three directions, eventually finding a flaw—or a deliberate doorway. Vergir's lair was impressive, but not impregnable. He got by well enough on reputation alone.

"Bugger me," Jervis swore, pushing through the wards and into the inner perimeter. Like a charm, the wind weakened, the snow settled on the ground, and a cleared path made itself seen. Sturgis' directions had panned out so far. He had assured there would be a distraction, so the path would be unguarded. Jervis weaved a shadow about himself—not proper invisibility, but harder to notice than disillusionment—and started at a brisk pace toward the castle.

The dark silhouette was startlingly vertical, as if someone had squeezed Hogwarts to occupy a quarter of the space with all the towers intact. On approach, he noticed crosswalks and cables linking them. Most towers were roofed, but a few housed various instruments indispensable in a Dark wizard's lair: an enormous telescope, an unlit brazier, an array of consecutively smaller lenses to focus and capture starlight.

There were no lights anywhere. Were it not for the pristinely cleared path, the castle would look uninhabited.

Wreathed in slithering shadow, Jervis approached the door at the end of the path to find it closed, but not locked. He slipped inside, welcomed by dead silence. The entry hall was devoid of windows and pitch black. The shadow-cloak lent him a better sight in darkness, enough to traverse the hall without bumping into pillars or catching his foot on an uneven stone.

The castle was old—not as old as Hogwarts, perhaps, but Hogwarts had never been abandoned. This place resembled a tomb more than a living space. It was neither hostile nor friendly. Just dead. Not even dust wanted to settle here. There was no sign of a rat scurrying along the wall, nor a spider tucked away in a corner, or a bat navigating the dark halls. Candelabra lined the walls, but the candles didn't even flicker as Jervis walked past.

He made his way through, finding more empty hallways, more open doors leading to immaculate rooms. Silent and unseen in the dark, he recalled Sturgis' directions: seek higher chambers, away from bedrooms, closets and kitchens, toward studies, libraries and laboratories. He climbed staircase after staircase and soon found himself at an intersection that branched off toward several of the towers. The doors here were all locked with heavy chains. He settled on working clockwise, checking each tower, when the perpetual silence that had accompanied him so far was shattered by echoing footsteps. Voices bounced off the walls, only becoming legible as the speakers came closer. Jervis slipped into a niche that could have housed some statue once, and flattened himself against the wall, his breath steady.

"...my research sees little sympathy from the government." An unfamiliar voice. Perfectly even, void of emotion, with a pronounced accent. "From anyone, in truth. I was surprised to receive your message."

"Curious minds find kinship in the furthest corners of the world."

 _You've got to be bloody joking._

Albus Dumbledore entered the circular chamber first, dressed in a turquoise robe that clashed monstrously with the dark castle. He walked with hands clasped behind his back, his smile just as illuminating as ever, but his back bent.

"So you see, master Vergir, I am quite tickled to compare your findings with my own. Astronomy, I find, is a regrettably overlooked subject."

The Ghost of Grindelwald stalked into the chamber like a hunting predator, and at once, everything made sense. The dead castle, its oppressive darkness, its owner's spooky fame.

Lortannes Vergir was inhumanly tall, looking down even at the tip of Dumbledore's hat. His movements were fluid despite his unsightly posture, as if his spine had been broken in half. He was gangly and at first sight frail, but Jervis could only imagine what strength rested in Vergir's stick-like fingers. He was bald, his skin a pale grey, waxy, grooved with deep creases. He returned Dumbledore's smile, lips peeling back to flash a suite of blackened, sharp teeth.

The two turned to one of the towers and—amazingly enough—Vergir pulled out a wand and flicked it at the door. The chains binding it in a crisscrossing pattern unlinked and retreated to allow the pair entrance.

Lortannes Vergir had found his own way towards immortality. Lortannes Vergir was a vampire. And he could still use a wand.

It raised more questions than it answered.

Jervis cast a last look at the tower Dumbledore and Vergir had chosen. It was the one he'd been planning to visit first. He would have to wait for them to vacate it. Entering a vertical, confined space with those two was asking for trouble. Then again... Was Dumbledore the distraction Sturgis had promised? Were they working together? Rumour dictated that Snape was travelling with Dumbledore. Was he around here somewhere?

Jervis chose another tower and suffered an excruciatingly long minute when spell after spell failed to unlock the chains on the door. At last, a combination of runework and an enchanted lockpick did the trick and he slipped through, holding his breath—Dumbledore and Vergir were exiting the other tower just as he reapplied the chains to the lock. One eye glued to the keyhole, his heart skipped a beat when Vergir cast a frowny look at the door behind which he stood.

"How about those lunar charts then, hmm?"

Vergir turned to face Dumbledore again. "Yes, I keep them with the telescope..."

Tonight, Jervis was the luckiest bastard on the planet.

The two skygazers made their way to a different part of the castle. Jervis turned on his heel and scaled the narrow, winding staircase, wondering how in Merlin's name a creature as tall as Vergir fit through under this low ceiling. Did he get down on all fours?

He took careful steps, watching where he placed his feet. What a fortunate occurrence—if he'd been looking ahead, he would have missed the mark scraped in the stone. A circle bisected by a line, inside a triangle. Sheer dumb luck.

The Ghost of Grindelwald had amassed an eye-catching collection of all sorts of items from the era of his master's rule: wands, each one irreparably damaged in some way, be it a fatal fracture or a burned out core, battle trophies, various knickknacks that looked to have been swiped from Durmstrang, plenty of literature and arithmantic and alchemical instruments. Jervis, however, had eyes for only one thing. A scroll of dark, glistening parchment bearing silver ink, tied with a red string. He had seen a similar object in Casa d'Agrattsi. A part of the design for Grindelwald's ingenious contraption, the soulcatcher. It hadn't been easy, copying it with no one the wiser.

The problem with _this_ one was Severus Snape holding the damn thing.

Alas, no obstacle was insurmountable.

Jervis remained flat against the wall, still hidden from sight by the shadows. Snape opened the scroll to inspect it. Satisfied, he retied the string and stuck it inside his robe. The theft complete, he picked up a shimmering cloak from a nearby chair and cast it over himself, vanishing from sight.

Jervis picked that moment to have the rug Snape was standing on wiggle underneath the man. Snape stumbled, though he regained balance with nary a sound, not even a sudden breath. In his moment of disadvantage, however, Jervis crossed the distance and aimed his left fist roughly where Snape's stomach should be.

Snape doubled over with a quiet moan, falling out from under the invisibility cloak, which Jervis caught and laid over his shoulders. It looked to be in enviable condition. Leagues better than his shadow disguise.

"Sorry, old chap," Jervis whispered, absolving Snape of the scroll, "but I need it more than you."

A stunner put Snape to sleep. Let Dumbledore worry about him. Jervis stepped back and pulled the cloak tighter, securing the scroll under his robe, just as Vergir barreled into the room, swiftly as if he'd apparated. The vampire crouched over Snape, nose and tongue licking and tasting the intruder. He shot up straight, looking around—his eyes fell on the only empty display case.

Dumbledore walked in and his face drew taut at the sight of Snape. "Oh dear."

"Is this an associate of yours, master Dumbledore?" Vergir hissed, grasping his wand. "You came to _steal_ from me?"

"There is no need for hostility—"

Before Dumbledore could finish speaking, Jervis witnessed something he hadn't thought possible. Vergir lunged at Dumbledore and both of them tumbled down the stairs. He was about to move, but the noise downstairs was cut abruptly and he blinked to see Vergir standing in the room again.

"The scroll..."

The vampire couldn't possibly have seen through the cloak. Few kinds of magic were capable of that and vampiric sight wasn't one of them. But invisibility cloaks weren't perfect. Perhaps smell wafted from beneath it, or Jervis had made sound he himself couldn't hear. Vergir launched himself at him and Jervis was pinned to the wall before he had consciously registered what had happened.

"One thief, two thieves, three thieves," muttered Vergir, their faces an inch apart, _"_ _thieves in my house..._ I'll drain the marrow from your bones before I let you die."

Jervis said nothing while the vampire babbled about elaborate tortures. He wriggled his left hand, now thankful for its lifelessness. He curled his fingers around Vergir's wrist and _squeezed._

Undead though he was, Vergir felt his bones being shattered in the grip and leapt back. Jervis summoned his wand from the floor and smacked Vergir with a bludgeoner. The hex forced the vampire back, but he weathered it with little hurt. Jervis unleashed Fiendfyre. A slash of Vergir's wand snuffed the flames out like a candle.

Dumbledore entered the cramped battlefield and Jervis' attention was absorbed by a binding spell he barely shielded himself from. Vergir spun wildly, spitting curses, and backhanded Jervis into a cabinet. Shards of glass and splinters flew everywhere. Jervis followed his instinct and aimed towards the roof.

The curse tore the tip of the tower clean off. Amidst raining debris, Jervis banished himself away from the floor and was launched up into the cold night. Below, Vergir and Dumbledore were preoccupied with each other, but one of them still managed to make a grab for him. Jervis deflected the attack just as he reached the highpoint and plummeted to the ground, the tower whizzing past.

The Cushioning Charm and the cover of snow made for a safe, though dizzy landing. He looked up. The top of the tower was alight with spellfire. Dumbledore and Vergir had their hands full for the moment, but he shouldn't tempt fate. No longer having to hide, he blasted himself a clear path through the snow toward the nearest ward edge. He broke into a run, grinning. Sturgis had stressed the need for secrecy, but it didn't matter now. He had the scroll.

A short but deadly spear missed his head by inches. He halted and spun around, scanning for the attacker. Another blade—a sword this time—would have split his face, were it not for something small but wiry knocking him off his feet.

Sprawled on his back, Jervis banished the little critter. The creature looked like a brawny house elf, but with teeth and claws house elves didn't have.

A volley of projectiles—spears, arrows, knives—flew to skewer him, but he deflected them back at the enemy. More were rising from the snow, bursting up from the ground, some armed, some not—those went straight for him. It took a pair of jaws snapping a little too close to his neck to realise what he was facing.

Inferi. Made out of goblins.

Lortannes Vergir didn't get nearly the credit he deserved.

For the second time that night, Jervis conjured Fiendfyre, and the inferi scattered, falling over each other to escape the flames. Thus protected, he cleared the edge of the wards and cast one last glance at the tower. It was dark and quiet again. He didn't wait to see who had won. Fighting temptation to let Fiendfyre gnaw at the dark castle, he nevertheless canceled the spell. He'd already gone against Sturgis' instructions. As much as he hated his Unbreakable Vow, he couldn't afford to jeopardise this alliance more than he already had.

He apparated away to the valley tavern. The witch behind the bar was still reading her newspaper. Jervis cleared his throat. "Floo?" he asked, placing a handful of knuts on the bar. He pointed at the fireplace. She reached below the counter and withdrew a bowl of green powder. Jervis left Transylvania acutely aware of the new enemy he had made tonight.

First his arm, then the Vow, now the Ghost of Grindelwald would be after him. _Damned if you do, damned if you don't..._


	3. PROLOGUE: Perspectives, Part 3

**PROLOGUE: Perspectives**

 **Part 3: Harry**

After the Bone Mound, his return to Hogwarts was... uncomfortable. Everyone knew of his involvement in the battle, of course—an account carefully curated by Sirius' bribe money—but the microcosm of the school was far enough removed from the rest of the world that the memory of his rampage in the Entrance Hall was more tangible than Voldemort's defeat. All the same, he received his share of sympathy on the account of Ron and Ginny. That didn't stop the whispers, though. More than a few had cast him firmly in with the likes of Death Eaters. Some, like Zacharias Smith, quite boldly preached that he was just another Dark wizard out for power, Voldemort merely his rival. _Murderer,_ they whispered. Malfoy's old clique hissed and spat at his feet.

"What about Nott, huh, Potter? Got him too, didn't you?"

A ring of older students surrounded him in the Entrance Hall. Most of his accusers were Slytherins, but other Houses were represented as well. He would be lying if he said his throat didn't tighten when he spotted Cho in the crowd. She'd traded blaming him for Cedric for general hatred. Smith had brought a few Puffs... Even Gryffindors were present. McLaggen obviously still held a grudge for his arm.

All four Houses had united against a common enemy. Not a bad thing in itself. Harry would just prefer that enemy to be Voldemort. Death Eaters had made it abundantly clear this time that their lord remained with the living.

Millicent Bulstrode took charge of the ambush. "Aren't you going to say anything?" she demanded, stepping forward, wand in hand.

He looked up to meet her eyes, debating whether he should draw. He did have a spell in mind that would liberate him even while outnumbered like this, but perhaps unleashing Fiendfyre in the Entrance Hall _again_ wasn't the best idea.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

The small crowd parted before Daphne Greengrass.

"This doesn't concern you," Bulstrode spat.

"Because _I_ would hesitate to cross wands with the boy who lays Death Eaters low."

A murmur of hesitation rippled through the gathering, but Bulstrode wasn't about to give up. "Where'd you lose Zabini? I thought you two were attached at the hip."

Daphne smiled sweetly. "At least I have someone to be attached too."

Bulstrode tensed up, her wand rising higher. All eyes had turned to the two girls, breaths held in anticipation. Harry's wand leapt from the holster to his palm. He spun in place, splitting the Knockback Jinx to radiate outward. The crowd, save for Daphne, were forced back, falling over each other and to the ground. He stepped over Bulstrode and left, sparing only two words. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Daphne said.

Harry saw Hermione at the top of the grand staircase, where she'd been observing the incident from on high. He started climbing, but she offered a fleeting smile and retreated out of sight. He sighed and began the trek up to the Gryffindor Tower, eyes lingering where Hermione had disappeared. It didn't take a scholar to see that she was avoiding him.

He tried to respect her wishes, give her space, but he longed to just talk to her, hold her hand, _anything._ She was the only friend he had left. Frowning, Harry looked behind him. Daphne had already left. What was her motivation in helping him? That hadn't been the first time she'd done something like this. Perhaps...?

He shook his head. Even the thought of it felt like a betrayal of Ron and Ginny. Like he would be replacing them—they couldn't be replaced.

Undecided, he remained in this limbo for weeks, taking no action on either front. Exams blinked past and then he was on the train bound for London, with a compartment all to himself. Several students had walked by—even his roommates among them—but none deigned to keep him company. Hermione had left Hogwarts the night before. She would be at the Delacours' by now. They'd agreed to host her for the summer, while she got her affairs in order and enrolled at Beauxbatons.

Hedwig whizzed past the window. Harry let her in, but she merely nipped at his fingers when he offered her a treat, and settled for a nap in her cage. He fished out parchment and quill from his trunk, but only got as far as 'Dear Hermione' when the door opened.

"Oh... Hi, Harry. Mind if we join you? Nowhere else has enough empty seats."

"Sure."

Parvati and Lavender came in first, followed by Padma and Terry Boot. Harry tucked himself away right by the window, but he felt apprehensive writing Hermione a letter with other eyes watching. He reached for the morning's Prophet instead, putting up a thin wall between himself and others, feeling distinctly uncomfortable while they chatted amiably.

"Dementors spotted near Azkaban... wonderful," he mumbled to himself, leafing through, when a finger pulled the Prophet down.

Parvati offered him a radiant smile. Harry didn't read much into it. Parvati smiled a lot.

"Hi."

Harry stared, face blank. "Hi."

"So, how did you do on your OWLs?"

"Passed, I think."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

Her smile faltered. "I heard Hermione's gone."

"Er, yes."

"I'm sorry."

"No need," Harry replied, a touch too quickly. He cleared his throat. "No, I didn't mean—sorry. Thank you."

"Ron and Ginny..." Parvati said. All conversations ceased. "That was awful."

"Yes," Harry whispered. "You know, I think I'll... go for a walk."

He excused himself and hurried down the corridor, passing carriage after carriage until he reached the last one. He threw open the door and walked outside, leaning heavily on the railing. Eyes closed, he concentrated on the storm of noise assaulting his ears as the Express sped away from Hogwarts.

Hermione hadn't spoken to him in days.

"What now?" he asked, but was drowned out by the train. "What?" he repeated, raising his voice above the thunder of wheels. _"What do I do now?"_

The world offered no answer.

Sirius was waiting for him at King's Cross. That evening at Grimmauld Place, Harry received a note from Dumbledore with a plea to reconsider returning to Little Whinging for the summer. He entertained the thought of sending the note back with a curse, but settled on scratching a short answer on the back: _No._ Dumbledore sent no more letters.

The wizarding world opened before him that summer. Sirius fulfilled his promise to teach him apparition. Harry absolutely refused to go anywhere with an escort, Voldemort or no. To his surprise, Sirius didn't protest.

His letters to Hermione went unanswered. Fleur wrote back, however, inviting him to visit when he wanted. A hundred times that summer he was set on getting a portkey from Mallory Grant and crossing the Channel, and a hundred times he held back, minding Hermione's request. She hadn't taken it back, she still needed time to sort herself out. He threw himself into work instead, any work. He spent time studying magic with a fervour he had never shown. Next time he met Mulciber, he decided, they would stand on even ground.

Of course, determination wasn't everything.

"You can't charge into a fight like an idiot," Sirius said, helping him up. "Fight with your head before you fight with your wand."

"Again," Harry barked.

"All right. Wands up."

They dueled daily at first, but soon other obligations ate into their time, so Harry fuelled his need to keep moving in other ways. He insisted on attending the Silver Order's meetings, but found talk of political strategy boring, and frankly, much of it went over his head. He had Sirius send him out into the field instead and within a week, he recruited Mallory for the Argents.

He barely glanced at his OWLs scores when they arrived. They were good enough to qualify him for a handful of NEWT courses and beyond that, they mattered little. He was going back to Hogwarts. It took being away again to realise how much he missed it. Even being friendless failed to sour the Welcoming Feast for him.

Soon, however, lack of company made itself very much known. Every time he had felt isolated or shunned before, he had friends beside him. Now, he had no one. That September was the worst he'd ever felt at Hogwarts. Until Hermione wrote back.

As if attempting to cheer him up, the last September weekend graced Hogwarts with a fleeting remnant of summer. There was nary a cloud in the sky and sunlight reflected off the grounds, still wet with last night's rainfall. Harry climbed up to the owlery in solitude, armed with a handful of treats. Hedwig had just returned from France. She would need bribing to make the trip again so soon. A good number of birds were resting on the perches, napping after the morning post delivery. Harry spotted Hedwig high up, just below the ceiling.

 _—_ _I'm sorry I haven't been writing back. I needed time to come to terms with it all—_

"Hey, Hedwig," Harry said quietly, holding out an owl treat. "Can I interest you in a nice snack?"

Hedwig stirred, but he didn't know if she was still asleep, or simply ignoring him.

 _—_ _The Delacours have been very kind to me. My French was much worse than I remembered. Fleur has been a lot of help. She sends greetings, by the way—_

"Come on, girl. You can rest up in France. Maybe Hermione will show around her new school."

One of Hedwig's amber eyes opened and zeroed it on the treat. Nonetheless, she huffed and turned away from him. Now he was certain she was ignoring him.

 _—_ _I hope you understand. I have to put distance between myself and Hogwarts, and not just physical distance. Perhaps it was selfish of me to keep silent. I'll try to write more often, but I can't just go back to how things were before last summer—_

Hedwig swooped down and snatched the treat from his fingers. Harry smiled and handed over his reply to Hermione. Her letter was disappointing, but after months of nothing, he was happy to have that much. Perhaps he could coax her out of the shell she had built around herself.

"You're doing better."

Startled, Harry spun to face the newcomer. Parvati carried a letter of her own. She smiled, like she always did. "It's the first time in weeks I've seen you smile."

"I've never stopped smiling," Harry muttered, and had to stop himself biting his tongue. _Idiot._

"But that was a sad smile. This one was genuine. Good news?"

He shrugged. "Sure, let's call it that. Not bad news, at least."

Parvati nodded and picked out one of the school owls to give her letter to. Harry stared at her, not sure what he was still doing up here.

"Ouch!" he yelped. Hedwig had bit his finger impatiently, demanding another treat before setting off. "Fine, fine… Here, you bloody glutton." Hedwig smacked him with a wing. "Well, then don't bite me."

Properly petted and treated, Hedwig flew off at last. Harry turned to leave. Parvati was still there, looking out of the window. Harry blurted out the question crowding itself onto his lips without much thinking.

"Why are you talking to me?"

She seemed surprised, as if she herself didn't know. "I guess… I just thought you needed someone to talk to." She paused—silence hung between them for a moment, suffocating. "Did it work?"

"I honestly can't say," Harry replied. "But… if you'd like to keep talking, I wouldn't mind."

"All right," she said, beaming. "Are you coming down for breakfast?"

"Already ate," Harry lied, feeling _weird_ of all sudden. "Think I'll take my broom out for a spin. I haven't had much time to fly."

It was a hastily made up excuse, but now that he'd said the words, the open skies did look tempting. Flying always let him clear his thoughts.

"Okay. I'll see you later."

Before she left, Harry lunged forward to grab her hand. The morning was getting stranger by the minute. "I never apologised," he said quickly.

"For what?"

"The Yule Ball. I was a prick."

She laughed, and the sound loosened the steel ring around Harry's stomach a bit. "Rather late for apologies, isn't it? But all right—you're forgiven."

He let her go and remained behind in the owlery. He swished his wand, invoking the Summoning Charm. He didn't have to wait long before the Firebolt whisked inside through one of the windows. He mounted up and shot forward, squeezing every bit of speed out of the broom as he raced toward the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake beyond, relishing in the wind cooling him, the dangerous thrill waking as he raced among the tallest trees. The Firebolt carried him away from Hogwarts and all his problems—at least for a little while.

~~oOo~~

A handful of conjured flame in his left hand lit the tunnel, the only light source among oppressive darkness. The Chamber of Secrets had a new incumbent, and at her request Harry had removed all torches that he and Dumbledore had placed in the tunnels the year before. When he worked down here, he only kept the light he needed. She preferred the dark, and he didn't mind. By now he could navigate most of the tunnels blind. She slithered past as he neared the Chamber proper, all twenty-six feet of her, raising her front to let him pet the scales on her head.

 _"_ _Master."_

 _"_ _Hello, girl."_

That was the extent of their conversation for the evening. Rust, named for the colour of her scales, wasn't much of a talker, though Harry wasn't sure if it was her character or her youth. Mere months old, she had hatched when her elder sibling perished at the Bone Mound. It would be a year or two before she was large enough to be of use in battle.

Rust was the Chamber's lady, but he was the final authority. With the warding diagrams Dumbledore had left him, he had adjusted the enchantments to admit no one without his permission, not even Sirius. Some of the work he undertook ought to remain hidden from everyone. Unbothered, he was free to pursue whatever struck his fancy.

At the edge of the pond, below the stone gaze of Salazar Slytherin, a ring of heavy tables bore potioneering equipment (some of it on loan from Professor Slughorn, who had permanently taken Snape's old position), alchemical encyclopedias, and a haphazard array of objects he had collected over just the few weeks since being back at Hogwarts.

Some of the books, pertaining to Grindelwald and his lieutenants, he had appropriated from the Restricted Section without a teacher's note. He'd found precious few tidbits about Benedict Hessberg, a rough biography of Elizer Agrattsi, and precisely nothing about Lortannes Vergir, save for a string of unofficially claimed titles. The Ghost of Grindelwald eluded historians as much as horcruxes eluded Harry. Some alchemical discussions mentioned an ancient wizard, Herpo the Foul, and his failed attempts at immortality, but nothing beyond that. Whatever horcruxes were, it seemed the secret rested with Voldemort and those remaining of Grindelwald's closest circle. He had given up the search.

He eyed the pensieve resting solitary on the last table, empty since Voldemort had burned stolen memories from it. Harry battled himself every time he came down here. Pull the memories out, cast them into the container, forget the guilt. Ron and Ginny and Hermione didn't need to haunt him. The means to relief was right there.

Every time he denied himself, but every time was a little harder than the last. He swallowed, aware that he would give in sooner or later. He drank his potion to forget about the curse-scars and in time, he would use the pensieve to forget about those dead and gone.

He shrugged out of his robe carefully, wincing when recent bruises made themselves known. He had taken a half dozen beatings from werewolves in the last month alone, adding generously to Brody's hoard. Each time he went in a different disguise, and yesterday would be the last for a while. Someone had begun asking questions about the parade of unassociated wizards inquiring after a dead girl. Sally-Anne seemed to have vanished from the collective memory of Brody's core crowd.

Harry could tell when he was being lied to. Greyback's presence was still felt through his pack—those of them that lingered in Britain. Most, the Death Eater had brought with him to the continent, where they were carving out an enclave in the east. Even those who wanted little to do with Greyback admired his efforts on behalf of werewolves enough to shield him from prying strangers.

What was his purpose in this? Harry didn't know. He seemed to stumble from indecision to indecision, weighed down by his own inadequacies and frustrated anger. What was the point? Sally was dead and buried. He and Remus had visited the grave once, at night—her parents had wanted nothing more to do with wizards. Remus left the next day and hadn't been heard from in months, though Sirius assured he was alive, if not well.

It seemed the only meaningful impact Harry had had in the war was getting his friends killed. Hermione was as good as ignoring him, and perhaps that was for the best. Her parents had only been a target because of her association with him.

Mistakes upon mistakes.

"Damn it," he whispered, staring at the ruby-red pooling on the tip of his finger. The knife had slipped while he chopped thornbush berries into the potion. A drop fell into the cauldron and the brew reacted immediately, bubbling up into a violent boil, spewing green smoke. He ran a hand down his face and vanished the ruined batch just short of erupting. He dabbed murtlap extract onto the cut and it sealed momentarily.

Defeated, he collected his robe and turned to leave. He wasn't going to get any work done today. He'd planned on skipping breakfast to try out his latest idea on improving the potion's effectiveness, but no point in starving if he couldn't focus anyway.

The skyview in the Great Hall showed heavy clouds and sharp rain. Awful weather for quidditch. Thank Merlin he'd resigned. Katie Bell had been as disappointed at his decision as she she was eager to have the captaincy. The team sat huddled together at the Gryffindor table, sending frequent glances at the enchanted ceiling.

"Hey Harry," Katie said as he walked past, "are you _absolutely_ certain? Not too late to gear up."

"Positive. Good luck out there."

The rest of the team cast longing looks after him, as if contemplating resignations of their own. Harry understood their apprehension. The last time he'd played in such weather, he'd plummeted almost to his death. At least there were no dementors around now.

He chose an isolated spot—as much as could be found on game day. Quidditch fan or not, no student slept in on those. The morning post saw no letters for him, but his Prophet was in turn heftier than usual. Scoffing, he threw away the advertising leaflets stuck between the pages and went on to ignore his food, his attention entirely on the front page. Three portraits dominated it. Remus and Greyback at the bottom ("opposite ends of the werewolf spectrum," the blurb said) and above them, a disheveled Dolores Umbridge, clutching at iron bars, a look of misery on her face. Harry wondered if it was Azkaban food or the news that elicited it. She couldn't have liked the headline.

WEREWOLF REGISTRATION ACT REPEALED IN FULL

From what Sirius had told him, werewolves considered this too little, too late from the Ministry.

He was about to turn the page when one of Greyback's eyes was poked out. Eyebrows rising, he put the paper down. Parvati sat across from him, brandishing a fork. He unfolded the paper for her see. "You've blinded the werewolf menace."

She smiled warmly. "So you're really not playing, then."

He nodded. "I really am not playing."

"Lucky you. Terrible weather."

"Mhm."

"I can't imagine spectating will be much better with such low visibility."

"I'm not going," he said before thinking, then immediately bit his tongue.

"Really?" She leaned in over the table. "Other plans?"

He hesitated only long enough to conclude there was no harm in telling her. "London."

Parvati frowned. "You know, I really can't imagine why McGonagall just lets you come and go as you please."

"It's quite simple really."

"Oh? Do share."

"I'm Harry Potter."

She laughed, and he smiled, despite the dark thoughts roaming in his head. He appreciated that she laughed at his stupid jokes. She knew so little of what went on outside the castle's walls that it was, in a way, a small blessing—a ray of sunshine to pierce the oppressing clouds.

"Morning, lovebirds."

Parvati's mouth quivered, a shade of a held back smile. Harry looked up. "Hello, Daphne."

They had established something of a skeletal friendship in the last few weeks. The Slytherin had made overtures and Harry hadn't opposed it. He would be caught dead before admitting it, but he longed for some company. Whether Daphne was being sincere or just playing to the tune of her parents' alliance with Sirius was yet to be seen, but Harry was willing to sacrifice a bit of caution for comfort.

"We're skipping the game and going for a pint in Hogsmeade instead. You're welcome to join us," Daphne said. "And Miss Patil as well, of course, if she likes."

"We?"

"Blaise, Astoria, several others. A trusted circle."

Harry ignored the Inner Circle analogy his mind leapt to. "I have nothing better to do. Parvati?"

She glanced at Daphne, a hint of suspicion in her expression. "Can I bring someone else?"

Daphne's smile wasn't all the way honest. "Of course. Entrance Hall at noon."

Daphne brought two seventh-year Ravenclaws, her boyfriend, and sister, who in turn brought… _her girlfriend,_ if their holding hands was a clue. The girl was Tracey Davis, an altogether unremarkable Slytherin, unless one found it peculiar that she seemed to occupy the perfect middle in all disciplines of life, except for her looks. Greengrass sisters, it seemed, would settle for nothing less. Parvati showed up with Lavender Brown, who promptly abandoned her friend and claimed one of the Ravenclaws.

They set off to Hogsmeade just as most of the school trekked up to the stadium to brave the elements. Harry ducked when he saw the Gryffindor team marching past briskly. He didn't think they would take kindly to him not even wanting to cheer them on.

The Three Broomsticks was brimming with customers as always, but they managed to grab a table when a pair of older witches withdrew towards the bar seeing their group approach. Lavender's chosen prey took the opportunity to put some distance between himself and the predator, and went off to place their orders. Harry found himself tucked away in the corner of the booth, between Astoria and Parvati. The younger Greengrass looked at her sister, then Harry, then Parvati, before turning away to Tracey. Harry didn't have time to mull over it before someone thunked a pint of Butterbeer down in front of him.

"—talking nonsense. You-Know-Who's been pushed out of Britain. How many of his best people are dead or in Azkaban?" argued Lavender's chosen entertainment for the evening, Marcus Belby. "If he could come back to Britain, he would've done it already."

"The Dark Lord isn't some simple-minded creature," Daphne said. "His contingency plans include contingency plans. Underestimating him is a losing strategy."

"Why do you call him that, anyway? You seem to have a lot of respect for him, given the side you've _apparently_ chosen."

"Because calling him 'You-Know-Who' is embarrassing. And I do respect him—a wizard of his talents demands respect. That doesn't mean I want to live under his regime."

Belby's gaze swept across their table. Clearly, he was frustrated and looking for allies. "Potter."

 _Oh, fuck me._

"You were at the ICW conference where Voldemort made his big speech, weren't you? What do you make of all this?"

Harry settled on an answer so quickly he surprised himself. "I agree with her," he said, nodding towards Daphne.

"So, are you saying that You-Know-Who is just waiting for an opportune moment? It doesn't matter what we do? What your godfather does?"

"Of course it matters," Harry replied, choosing his next words carefully. It wasn't the first time he'd been asked about the Silver Order. Sirius had made it explicitly clear that he was to reveal nothing. "But we have to be on our guard. For students, that means learning to defend ourselves. That's the best thing you can do right now."

"You're the exception, though," said Blaise. "Not just an ordinary student."

"I'm not," Harry agreed. "But you wouldn't want to trade places with me."

Blaise gave a sly smile. "No, I don't suppose I would."

Belby frowned, then stood to order more beer and snacks. He didn't seem angry about losing the argument, more thoughtful, as if he'd only been arguing to get answers out of others. Perhaps that was why Daphne was friends with him.

Early afternoon stretched into dinnertime and they opted to eat here instead of trudging back up to Hogwarts. Soon after, as Rosmerta's daytime patrons left, replaced by the evening crowd, an influx from Hogwarts streamed inside, a wriggling beast headed by the triumphant Gryffindors. Coote and Peaks—beaters taking over after Fred and George—hoisted Katie up on their shoulders, carrying her like a conquering warlord.

"FIVE HUNDRED!" they yelled, Katie beaming above them. "FIVE HUNDRED POINTS!"

 _"_ _Who needs the Snitch anyway?"_

Demelza, Harry's replacement as seeker, seemed to want to disappear, but the team, euphoric after the win, sung her praises, extolling every sloth grip, every dive and hairpin, a seekers' duel for the ages. Harry raised a glass to her, feeling a measure of pride. He _had_ coached her last year, finding time even with everything else that had been happening.

He dried off that last pint— _thank Merlin you can't actually get drunk on Butterbeer_ —and excused himself from the table, citing a previously arranged matter.

"It's been wild guys, but I really have something important to do. See you later."

"Don't be a stranger, Potter," said Astoria. "You're pretty fun when you unwind."

"Right…" he replied, not knowing what to say to the girl. He exchanged a smile with Parvati as he struggled past her to get out of the booth. "Damn it, sorry—"

"It's fine," she said, massaging her elbow. "I'll see you back at the castle."

The sheeting rain from before had become a chilly drizzle that, together with the wind tearing through the High Street, made for an unpleasant walk to the edge of town. Fortunately, he had the Cloak. It was far from a common magical garment the likes of which Madame Malkin displayed in her shop. It seemed to develop a new property every other week. Harry hadn't needed to enchant it to keep him warm and dry, even in this weather. It would transform at a thought, looking like his ordinary school cloak one moment, then an expensive embroidered piece that Lucius Malfoy wouldn't spit at the next.

He walked the path towards the Hogsmeade cemetery, cast a look over his shoulder, and willed the Cloak to hide him. He _felt_ himself vanishing from view and all other foreign senses, not for the first time wondering if Moody's eye could still pierce the Cloak, when it had been changed by his intuitive spell atop the Astronomy Tower months ago. He braced himself and spun in place.

The first apparition placed him several dozen miles south, in the wilderness spot he'd made into a private apparition point. Establishing a path from Hogwarts to London made the journey swifter.

Almost without thinking, he apparated again, jumping further south, then again, his feet barely brushing the ground at the next stop. He made several more jumps, often skipping points along his path, capable of apparating further now than when he'd first learned the skill. He arrived at Grimmauld Place Twelve in under a minute.

As far as he knew, his rapid apparitions were an anomaly. He could almost skip through space between steps. He was keeping it a secret for now. Sirius was suspecting something, but so far he hadn't guessed that Harry was chaining apparitions like a duelist did curses.

The house was empty, save for Kreacher. Harry didn't linger—the Knight Bus deposited him at the visitors' entrance to the Ministry. The Atrium was brimming with the outgoing crowd. Hidden under the Cloak, Harry pushed through to the lifts and from there went down to the bottom floor.

It looked abandoned, not a soul in sight. Not that this area was ever terribly busy, but he'd never seen it so utterly depopulated. He shimmered back into view stepping off the elevator. The Auror waiting there to escort him to the courtroom didn't even blink. He rarely ever did.

Harry inclined his head. "Knight-Captain."

"Mr. Potter," said Auror Ribs. "Follow me."

It was courtroom four. Ribs' partner, Shins, was there, standing guard. Harry took note of this. One of Sirius' people might have been a coincidence. Two raised questions.

"Mr. Potter, thank you for joining us." Percy, the first person to greet him inside, pointed him toward the witness stand in the middle of the room.

Three of Sirius' people? This was _arranged._ Only, did Sirius want to keep her in, or get her out?

A panel of Wizengamot judges—seven appointed members—presided over the hearing. Harry glanced at each of their faces, finding himself at a loss. He had gotten to know Aurors, the Cabinet members, even some of Crouch's people, Sirius' Argents. The Wizengamot was outside his scope.

"Harry Potter," the presiding chief judge spoke. "You have been called as a witness to this hearing, in the matter regarding the release from Azkaban of convicted Death Eater Aurora Fawley. I am warlock Benton and I am accompanied here today—"

Harry let the names wash over him, instead glancing at Percy, who was seated just to the left of them, representing the increasingly besieged Minister Fudge. Eyes narrowed, Percy nodded slowly. Hoping he was reading the signal correctly, Harry turned his attention back to the judges.

"So…" Benton paused, reviewing a folder in front of him. "Aurora Fawley suffered devastating injuries to her mind while in custody of Aurors. An expert from the Department of Mysteries affirms that this was a result of Fawley's abuse of Dark magic…"

Harry swallowed and blinked, but stood still.

"...she was placed in a minimum security wing at Azkaban, where it has become apparent that she poses no further threat to society—it appears the damage is irreversible. Her family has petitioned for her release. Your testimony, Mr. Potter, will be instrumental in our assessment."

Percy stood up. "Excuse me, warlock Benton, but what weight does Mr. Potter's word carry in this matter?"

Benton faced Percy's challenge looking rather self-important. "Mr. Potter, next to Albus Dumbledore, was the last person to speak to Aurora Fawley while she was still in command of her faculties. Beyond that, you need not trouble yourself, Undersecretary Weasley."

Harry held his breath at every question, but it didn't appear as if the warlocks found the circumstances of his visit with Fawley suspicious. Clearly, Sirius had done a thorough job of covering the tracks.

"One last question, Mr. Potter. What impression did you take away of Aurora Fawley?"

Harry tailored his answer carefully. "She is—well, was, I suppose—a true believer. She wasn't pressured into following Voldemort. Disciplined. Intelligent. She knew what she was doing."

"Thank you. You may step down."

Ribs opened the door for him. He passed another pair of Aurors on the way to the lift. One was pushing a wheelchair.

Aurora Fawley looked pitiful. Head lolled to the side, gaze scattered, hands trembling uncontrollably… A portrait of misery—if she was even capable of perceiving it. A small group trailed behind her, an older couple and a young man, couldn't be long out of Hogwarts. He was the only one who spared a look for Harry—it was a look of hatred and certainty. Proof or no, he _knew_ who was responsible.

Harry understood perfectly.

~~oOo~~

Aurora Fawley was released.

Harry didn't find out until weeks later, when Percy brought up the hearing at a meeting with Sirius. Harry wasn't an Argent Knight by title, but Sirius was keeping up his promise of getting him involved.

"I thought you knew," Percy said, looking to Sirius, who didn't look pleased at all.

"No," Harry replied slowly, also looking at his godfather. "Someone neglected to tell me."

"There are schemes Harry, and not all of them concern you," said Sirius.

"Is there a scheme that involves Aurora Fawley?"

"Not presently."

Harry shrugged. "Then perhaps I'll launch my own. I haven't enjoyed a good scheme since Pettigrew."

Percy pointedly looked away while Sirius' glare turned stony. "Do not meddle. I swear, if you make a mess _again,_ I won't be forgiving this time."

"Understood," Harry said, standing to leave. "I'll make sure to stay out of your way."

He returned to Hogwarts fuming, but the anger wafted off by the time he climbed up from the gate to the castle. What was there to resent, really? He had nothing to do with Aurora Fawley. He'd never even bothered to look up the charges that convicted her. The Dark Mark and Dumbledore's word had been good enough for him.

More weeks flew by, Christmas was just around the corner, and he hadn't found a valid reason to insert himself into anything Sirius might or might not be doing about Aurora. Which was much ado about nothing, as it turned out. Sirius had assigned one of his people to keep watch on the Fawley Estate, but nothing beyond that.

Frustrated, Harry put the broken Death Eater out of his mind. Not the first time he saw something where there was nothing sinister. Besides, didn't he already have enough on his plate at Hogwarts?

He stayed at the castle for Christmas. With the Order of the Phoenix as good as disbanded, there was no reason to spend the holidays at Grimmauld Place. Half-resigned, he accepted Professor Slughorn's invitation to a party. At least this time he had no trouble finding a date. Parvati was a welcome distraction from the roiling stormclouds in his thoughts, but even that was taken away from him not five minutes in.

"A vampire?" Parvati asked, arms crossed, tone sceptical.

"Properly gangly and repulsive," Lavender chattered excitedly. "Come on, I'll introduce you!"

Feeling a funk approaching, Harry plunged into the crowd, tasting every exotic snack he came across—almost. Some didn't look designed for human consumption. He breathed easier seeing Daphne circling the dancefloor. He assumed what he hoped was a mischievous smile and made his way over.

"You dance?" he asked, and swept her onto the floor without waiting for an answer. He wasn't much of a dancer, but it was a slow song.

"Hand on my waist. No, down here." She corrected his grip as they slowly turned. "Won't Parvati object, though?"

Harry tilted his head. "I'm not sure there's anything there, honestly. She has no claim to me yet. If you'd like to enter the race…"

A laugh, a brush of her hand on his shoulder. Friendly gestures. He'd missed those. "Tempting, but Blaise _would_ object."

"Well, then ditch him. He and Parvati can get together instead."

Daphne leaned in closer. "Jokes aside, I thought you really liked her."

They swayed gently to the music for a long minute before Harry answered. "I do… But I have no idea how to go about it."

"You've dated a girl before. Maybe try what you did then."

"That sort of just… happened. Certainly not on account of my initiative. But enough about my inadequacies—"

"Are you implying I have any?" Daphne interrupted. "I resent that."

They laughed. He didn't _trust_ her, not yet. He remembered her laying out a calculated approach to him, when she hadn't known he'd been listening. How much of their current relationship was genuine? He wanted to believe her—being alone at Hogwarts thrust him back into the shoes of the skinny kid Dudley used to pick on, just as isolated.

At least they could share a laugh and a dance. For now, he supposed, it would do.

Someone tapped his shoulder. "Excuse me, Potter, but I believe you're usurping my place." Zabini had appeared from the crowd, staring at Harry expectantly.

"Of course. How familiar of me," Harry joked and placed Daphne's hand in Zabini's. A jolt shot up his arm, he winced. Suddenly, he became aware of the scent coming off of the Slytherin, the dull spark in his eyes that seemed to drink light instead of reflecting it...

Blaise Zabini had the Dark Touch.

No, he hadn't made a mistake. He would have felt that before if it had been there. This was a recent thing, still fresh and intense, like the lingering heat in the ashes of a campfire. Dazed, Harry backed away as Zabini pulled Daphne close. An independent interest in the Arts, or was there grounds for suspicion? _Interesting…_

"What is?"

He spun to face Parvati. Lavender—thank Merlin—was nowhere in sight. "I said that out loud?"

"You did. So? What's so interesting?"

Harry shook his head. "Nevermind. Just something Daphne told me."

"Daphne, right…"

Parvati's tone simultaneously raised an alarm— _bloody great, now she's put out_ —and anticipation— _but if she's jealous, that means…_

"So, how was the vampire?"

If he were alone, he could slap himself right then.

"Gangly and repulsive, as promised," Parvati said. "I'd rather not talk about it. Lavender was _flirting_ with him, for some unearthly reason, and I need to purge that image from my mind." She grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the snack table. "Open up," she ordered, then plopped a chocolate-frosted cherry into his mouth. "Well?"

"Decadently sweet."

Parvati grinned. "Oh, aren't you eloquent?"

Something above her shoulder caught his eye. He hesitated, breathed in…

"Could you take a step back, please?"

"Pardon?"

"Just back up a bit." He gently seized her wrist and moved in much too close—Parvati stepped back to regain her balance. "One more."

"Harry, what are you doing?"

He pointed up, at the mistletoe.

"Oh…" A winning smile bloomed on Parvati's face. "Clever."

~~oOo~~

The anniversary of the Bone Mound came and went. Harry visited the graves at Foghorn Estate after the date, privately, only seeing Muriel in passing to gain entrance. The Weasleys had all gone together. It seemed wrong to impose himself on a grieving family and even worse to seed a tradition. He knew in his bones that more would die. Too many already have. Hermione's parents, Hestia Jones, Sally-Anne, Ron and Ginny... He wasn't going to be visiting graveyards on deathdays. A cowardly admission, so he kept it to himself.

Throat constricted, he went down to the Chamber of Secrets the same evening, rushed down the tunnel, into the cavernous hall, and summoned the empty pensieve to his hands. He raised the artefact above his head and slammed it on the floor.

A resounding, gong-like note rang out and hung in the still air. There wasn't a tiniest mark on the pensieve, but the floor was cracked and dented where it had struck. Harry exhaled slowly. Idiot. Destroying such an object was senseless—but it couldn't stay here, either.

"So… are we agreed?" he asked an hour later, at the shore of the Black Lake. Doug the squid had come out to the shallows. It voiced assent, a rumble that vibrated in Harry's chest. "Alright. Take it somewhere deep."

He placed the pensieve on water—it didn't sink, despite its weight. Next to it, Harry also floated a basket of apples, appropriated from the kitchen. Doug snatched both and shot away from the shore. Within seconds, only ripples signified anything had happened at all. He straightened, hands in the pockets of his coat. Early spring was chilly up here. For a long moment he stood still, saying nothing, enjoying the sunset playing with colours on the water.

"You can come out now," he said at last.

Moments later, Daphne came to stand next to him. She bumped his shoulder. "How long have you known I was here?"

"Since you followed me out of the castle."

"Damn it. I thought I was better than that."

"Don't feel bad about it. Few people could sneak up on me these days." Another long silence went by, both of them staring out at the horizon, burning with the purples and oranges, dimming as dusk crept in from the east. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

"Why did you give Doug a pensieve?"

"Don't change the subject. Something's eating you up. Spit it out."

Daphne sighed. "Have you noticed anything… off, about Blaise lately?"

"I don't spend my time watching your boyfriend."

"He's made himself distant. He has his moods, but this is different." She looked down and kicked a pebble into the water. "I hope he's being pressured into doing something he doesn't want to do, but I can't be sure that he's not just making a mistake."

"What mistake would that be?"

Daphne's eyes narrowed. "Come on, Harry. My family is firmly in with you and Sirius Black. I can't have Blaise turning on me."

 _Ah, there she is… The Daphne Greengrass I met last year._ "Alright, I'll look into it. But what raised the suspicion, I wonder?"

"A relative of his was recently released from Azkaban."

Harry perked up. _"_ _What?"_

"A Death Eater. Second cousin, I think, on his mother's side. Her name—"

 _It can't possibly be…_

"—is Aurora Fawley."

Harry snorted. "I don't believe it."

"What? Why? Do you know something?"

He gave Daphne a hard stare. "For his sake, I hope he's being pressured too."

~~oOo~~

To Harry's frustration, his approach wasn't as effective as he would have liked. He found himself busy enough between classes—trying not fail them—continued experiments with his potion, and frequent outings to London to keep himself informed of what the Argents and the Ministry were up to. Sirius seemed to be cooking some new scheme and Harry resorted to getting much of his news from Mallory. Following Blaise on top of all that was a complication he didn't need, but wasn't going to ignore.

Mindful of last year's experiences, he sent Rust out into the Forest. Younger though she was than her predecessor—and less talkative—her intellect was on par. Smaller size made her better suited to spying. Harry put her to work observing the paths, using the ten thousand eyes of the Forest's lesser snakes.

Blaise, however, wasn't Theodore Nott. He sneaked out of the castle through one of the less frequented passages that led toward the greenhouses, then took a broom outside the wards. Stumped, Harry realised that he couldn't follow his target once he apparated away. That obstacle had him turning to Daphne.

"Ask him."

She looked incredulous. "I can't just confront him like that."

"He trusts you, no?"

"I—I don't know anymore."

He sighed. "Right. What's the password to Slytherin commons?"

"Harry…"

"I'll get it one way or another." He tilted his head. "I could probably just bargain for it from Slughorn."

Access to the Slytherin dorms got him into Blaise's room and his things. He found no clues—but plenty of material for a tracking spell.

Blaise was never gone more than three, four hours and his comings and goings didn't hold to any pattern that Harry could discern, but at least now he knew the destination. Another month slipped away from him while he observed Rugberry Creek, the ancestral seat of the Fawleys, learning about the layout of the buildings, mapping out the wards, noting the times of Blaise's visits. He fell into a routine that carried on, unbroken, until sixth year exams monopolised his time for a week and then it was summer and he was back in London, operating out of Grimmauld Place. One of these nights, he encountered someone else watching the Fawley estate.

"Drop your wand," Harry said, the tip of his own at the stranger's neck. "I won't ask twice."

"Alright. Here, it's on the ground."

"Turn around. _Slowly."_

The stranger faced him—not a stranger at all.

"Savage? I knew Sirius had someone staking the place out, but you seem too valuable for that." Harry summoned the man's wand and returned it.

Corvin Savage, half-blood, Auror… and one of Sirius' earliest recruits, recommended by Robards.

"Orders from the Marshal. He wants the Creek watched closely," Savage said, tucking his wand into a sleeve. "And before you ask, yes, I know why, and no, I'm not gonna tell you. Ask him yourself."

"Hmm… Are you alone out here?"

Savage swiped his arm in a nonspecific direction. "Tonks is somewhere. Sirius didn't assign her here. She insisted on tagging along. I think she feels left out."

Harry frowned. "Why would Sirius leave her out? Is she still sour about not making rank?"

"You know about that?" Savage asked, snorting quietly.

"Gossip travels fast."

"You're not even in the Order, lad."

Harry glared. "Not _officially,_ because Sirius insists on adults only, but I'm as good as in."

"Right, right. You're seventeen soon, aren't you?"

Harry walked around the Auror to get a better look at Rugberry Creek. The small forest ended abruptly at a cliff-like ridge and below, between two hilly spines, the Fawley estate sat astride a small but lively vein of crystal-clear water. It rushed through the Creek and then away from it, into a nearby river.

"So… what brings you here?" Savage asked, reaching into his coat for a pipe as he leaned against a tree.

"You're not going to ask me how I sneaked up on you?"

"Bah. That cloak o' yours, whatever the hell that thing is. I can't be blamed for that."

Savage lit up and was puffing away leisurely when Harry decided to answer the outstanding question. "A favour for a friend, actually."

"Ah." The Auror sent a smoke-ring up toward the sky, his eyes following it as it dissolved. "The Greengrass girl."

"How—"

"I keep my ear to the ground. Sirius doesn't recruit idiots." He shook some ash out of the pipe. "Although I'm not sure about Ribs."

"He's just—"

"Strange," Savage supplied.

"Yeah."

"Stranger than most, I'd say." His smoke done with, Savage replaced the pipe into his coat. "Oi, isn't that your prey down there?"

Indeed, Blaise had just left through the Creek's front gate. Wand in hand, he disapparated.

"Well, it's been wonderful to be bored here with you," Harry said, then gave Savage a flat stare. "Don't tell Tonks I was here."

Savage waved him off. "See you soon."

Harry encountered Savage twice more on his escapades, but didn't reveal himself. He wasn't there to make conversation. He gradually sneaked closer to the Creek as he learned to avoid the ward-traps around it. A wall of mossy stone was the last obstacle preventing entrance. The foundation seemed to have been laid using shattered tombstones, or perhaps the Fawleys buried their dead along the wall to strengthen familiar magic. No matter. His tracking spell, once properly attuned, would allow him to follow Blaise inside.

As summer went into full bloom, Harry found time to tear himself away from the shadow war being waged among those of great ambition. Parvati took him for a night out. To his surprise—and apprehension—she also invited Daphne and Blaise. Harry noticed the sweet but sharp smile she sported when they met Daphne at a wizarding club in Bristol. If she wanted to put him through some _test_ to see if she should be jealous… He wasn't going to play that kind of game. _I hope I'm wrong about this._

"Daphne," he greeted. "Blaise not coming?"

Her smile quivered for a fleeting moment. "Off doing something or other. He said to tell you he's sorry."

Inside, Parvati led them to one of the billiard tables on the second floor. The spot came with a private booth. The lighting was on the dim side, lending the place the ambience of elitism.

"Ever played pool?" Parvati asked, handing Harry a cue stick.

"I didn't know wizards played it."

"Oh, we steal from muggles all the time," said Daphne, selecting a stick for herself. "Music, literature…"

Harry cracked up. "There's wizarding music besides Celestina Warbeck and the Weird Sisters?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Rack 'em up, Potter."

They played in turns, until it became apparent that Parvati was improbably talented at the game. Harry and Daphne resorted to teaming up, but even playing against the rules—two shots for them for each of Parvati's—they trailed behind.

"Any other talents you're hiding?" Harry asked, pulling Parvati away from the table and into his lap as they fell onto the booth bench.

"Oh, you'll have to earn the privilege of seeing them."

"It's appalling, how sweet you two are," Daphne said, popping the cork on a Butterbeer.

"I'm not _sweet."_

"You kind of are," Parvati said.

"In that case, you can sit elsewhere, witch." With that, he pushed her off his lap. The girls shared a laugh at his pouting.

Parvati snaked an arm around his neck. "Say, Harry, do you know what today is?"

"Ugh...Wednesday?"

"It's July thirtieth," Parvati corrected him. At that moment, a server brought in a small cake, frosted with dark chocolate, a single green-flame candle burning on top of it. "I know your birthday is tomorrow, but you didn't say anything about a party, and I wanted to do something nice."

"Wow. Okay." He pulled the cake toward himself, running his palm quickly above the candle flame. "I'm not a big party person…"

"And this is not a big party," Daphne cut in. "Make a wish."

He blew out the candle, explicitly _not_ wishing for anything. Who knew what weirdness a birthday wish could conjure in the wizarding world. "Thank you," he said quietly. "This is nice."

Despite the warm contentedness filling up his stomach, Harry couldn't shake the trickle of anxiety that never seemed to leave him these days. In every moment he expected some tragedy to strike, a Death Eater raid, or Voldemort himself. What was Blaise doing right now?

They left sometime later and the cool air outside washed away the sleepiness that had crept up on them.

"Harry, be a dear and lend me a hand," Daphne said, taking wary steps. They'd sampled more than just Butterbeer with the cake. "Your apparition is much better than mine."

"By all means. Hold on, ladies." He took both girls' hands and stepped into a pocket of void between grains of reality, pulling his companions along. They arrived in the courtyard of the Greengrass estate. The air was heavy with the aroma of blooming vines, alive with the scraping of wind on the leaves and the hum of moths circling the softly glowing lamps. Daphne, with a brilliant smile, threw her arms around him, brushed her lips against his cheek and whispered, "Happy birthday."

They took time saying their goodbyes and even Parvati warmed up to the Slytherin, when one of the doors opened and out came Astoria, her face both worried and angry.

"Merlin, Daph, can you even walk straight? You chose the worst time to be drunk."

"I'm not drunk," Daphne shot back. "I've just put myself in a good mood."

"Why's it a bad time to, uh…" Harry slurred, but found the words failing him, so he enhanced his question with a flourish of a gesture. "...oh, you know—"

Astoria responded with a thunderous glare. "Blaise is here. He's extremely fidgety and insisting on seeing _you,"_ she said, grabbing her sister by the arm. "Mum and Dad are out and he looks like he's about to do something stupid."

That was almost enough to sober them up. The four of them—Parvati came along and no one objected—entered the bowels of the Greengrass home. Astoria led them to a study, where Blaise was pacing the room briskly, fingers grabbing at things that weren't there.

Blaise, eyes wide and bright, face flushed, descended on them like a bird of prey. "Daphne—Potter? What are you—Patil, why the hell are _you_ here?"

"I could ask you the same," Daphne retorted, poking him in the chest. "You've barely spoken to me in weeks and now you just show up—"

"Potter, you had something to do with this, didn't you? _Didn't you?"_

Harry's eyes narrowed as he palmed his belt where the wand rested in the holster. "Step back, Zabini. You're not making any sense."

"Marcus was found with two corpses a few hours ago," Blaise spat. "Cornelius Fudge and a Death Eater, Alecto Carrow."

 _"_ _What?"_ Harry blurted out. "Blaise, calm down—"

"Shut—your—mouth—Potter," Blaise ground out. "Then Aurors cursed their way inside my home and _arrested my mother._ Wouldn't even tell me what this was about!"

Getting a straightforward answer out of Blaise was a futile endeavour. He alternated between demanding answers, silence, and hurling accusations—mostly at Harry, and by that proxy at Sirius. Tension grew thicker; Harry was ready to resolve this with wands, but Blaise seemed to run out of steam.

"So help me, Potter, if anything happens to her… I'll kill you," he spat out the final threat and stormed out, leaving Harry's head spinning. Fudge, dead? Alecto Carrow? _Bloody hell._

"Stay here," he ordered, in a tone that brokered no dissent. "I'll unravel this mess and let you know as soon as I know something." He turned to Parvati. "I have to go. Thank you for the evening."

He apparated mid-step, straight into Grimmauld Place—a minor miracle that he didn't splinch himself in his state, but his mind was on things far away from apparition safety. The house was deserted, save for Kreacher. Harry raided the potion stores for a vial of a slightly out-of-date Wit-Sharpening Potion and went on to the Silver Order's headquarters. There, he found at least a dozen of the Argents waiting in the entrance hall. The atmosphere was that of nervous excitement. The meeting hall's doors were closed. Savage lounged nearby, cleaning his pipe.

"I wouldn't—" he managed to say before Harry threw the doors open and stalked inside, where Sirius was in a private conference with Percy and Anton Robards.

Sirius frowned, seeing him. "I wasn't expecting—"

"Sirius," Harry interrupted, breathing heavily, "what the fuck did you do?"


	4. CHAPTER ONE:Graceless is the Fall,Part 1

**CHAPTER ONE: Graceless is the Fall**

 **Part 1**

"Sirius, what the fuck did you do?"

"Come back in five minutes, once you've calmed down."

"No," Harry said. "Enough. All you've done for a year is dismiss me and shut me out. That's not what we agreed to."

Sirius stared, his face like a mask of stone. "There was no such agreement. Only what you imagined."

"I thought you said you weren't going to be like Dumbledore," Harry snarled.

"Which is why I'm not going to tolerate your bullshit."

The entire table, a monstrosity that could seat forty, vibrated when Harry slammed his hands down. Sirius, who had been leaning on it, jolted back as if shocked. "You could have at least given me a bloody warning."

Sirius glanced at the table, then at Harry, his head tilted, eyes narrowed. "Regarding what?"

"Don't play the idiot," Harry spat. Alcohol buzzing in his head had loosened him—a valve that had been keeping in all the emotions he had suppressed over the past year had opened. He couldn't distinguish what was driving him anymore, anger or guilt—it didn't matter. He just wanted to _expel_ it.

Sirius walked around the table to stand at arm's length. "You reek. Get out. We'll talk when you're able to think str—"

"Talk? To me? You only talk _at_ me."

Sirius adopted a warning tone. "You're making a fool of yourself."

"Will you shut your mouth for a goddamn minute?" Harry said. "You had to have known I was following Blaise Zabini. Savage saw me at the Fawley Estate, I don't believe for a second he didn't report it to you the same evening. I was close to something, but now you've pulled some bait and switch with Marcus Plateau and Alecto Carrow? Would it have been so hard to have Savage slip me a word?"

"Ah..." Sirius strolled slowly past, hands clasped behind his back. "There's the rub. You think you were actually _getting somewhere."_ He turned, their eyes locked on one another. "You weren't. Blaise Zabini has nothing to offer."

"He has something to do with Aurora Fawley!"

Sirius turned away. "Keep telling me things I already know," he said, sounding bored.

Harry let out a shuddering breath. "Then you could have told me _that."_

"To what end? So you could feel like shit again because you rushed into something without thinking?"

Percy and Robards observed them in silence, Robards blank-faced, Percy clearly apprehensive. "Get out," Harry snarled at them.

They didn't move.

"Why don't you give us a few minutes," Sirius said. At his order, his officers left the room, Percy closing the door behind him.

"You've shut me out," Harry whispered. Sweat dripped down from the tip of his nose. He jammed a finger into his collar, pulling at it sharply.

"I warned you," Sirius replied. "I said quite clearly—if you made a mess again, I wouldn't be forgiving. And given that you're here, drunk and furious, I assume there's a mess. So... What the fuck did _you_ do?"

"Blaise Zabini—"

"Did he find out you've been following him?" Sirius interrupted.

"No. He showed up at the Greengrass residence, I happened to be there—"

 _"Is that so?"_

"He doesn't know... but he suspects something," Harry admitted.

Sirius closed his eyes. "Sit down."

"I can get through to him, I just need to know—"

Sirius' hand clamped down on his shoulder with inhuman strength. A lance of pain went through his chest; with a grunt, he collapsed onto a chair.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Harry." Sirius circled the table, where he sat down opposite from Harry, who was still reeling from the jolt of pain. He'd never seen Sirius display this kind of wandless magic before.

"When all of this began, you didn't know much. You could be forgiven a lot. You made mistake after mistake, but you learned from them. I was proud of you. You raised my expectations." A pause; Sirius put his hands together, elbows on the table. "Imagine my sore disappointment with what you've done next—which was not much at all."

Harry sat stumped. "What?"

"Perhaps it's my own fault. We're not quite as alike as I'd thought. I understand it, to a point. You lost Ron and Ginny, then Hermione left... I thought, maybe he needs to grieve, or just scream at the world for a while. But weeks went by, months... You carried on brooding, drowning yourself in guilt, ignoring anything important."

Harry bolted from his seat. "Don't you fucking dare—"

Sirius glared. _"Sit. Down."_

There was a crushing weight in that gaze. Harry's knees felt like wax. He sat down.

"I had other friends besides Remus and James, you know? There were casualties. Do you think Remus, or your father, or myself, folded like a house of cards when someone turned up dead? We didn't have that luxury. We soldiered on. But you... I only shut you out after you had made yourself useless. You and Remus both, the idiot."

"Remus is looking for Greyback," Harry shot back.

"Yes, and all he's accomplished in a year is a headline every other week about Greyback recruiting more to Voldemort's banner. Don't worry, I'll have a piece of mind for him too, once he deigns to drag himself back here."

Deflated, Harry hid his face in his hands. "What do you want from me?"

Sirius leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the table. "We've had a year. An entire year, Harry, while Voldemort licked his wounds. Dumbledore told you what you could do—Hogwarts, your peers, they need a leader. The youth of today are the foundation of tomorrow. You've united them, alright. Most students at Hogwarts either hate you or fear you. Splendid job."

"Daphne Greengrass—" Harry began, but Sirius cut him off.

"Right, I forgot about that. I've only been working with her family for almost two years now. Bloody great recruitment. Perhaps your girlfriend, then? The one who knows nothing about anything we're doing."

"Fuck you," Harry growled. "Ron, Ginny, Hermione—I had no one left. I found two people who make me feel like I can take a fucking breath, you have no right to turn this into a _mistake..."_

"An entire year, Harry," Sirius said. "And you've wasted it. You don't deserve to be here, among people who have done something. Percy—Ron and Ginny were his blood. Did you know he's at Foghorn every month? He goes, he mourns, then he comes back and gets to work, because he knows the stakes of what we're fighting for. There hasn't been a break in the war. Voldemort's had his people spread all over Europe like cockroaches. You let yourself fall apart." Sirius stood and glanced at his watch. "Two hours to midnight. You're as good as an adult. Come see me when you start acting like one. I have no more patience for you tonight."

Sirius didn't wait for him to get up and leave. The door flew open and the chair was yanked back out into the entrance hall. Harry endured the silence and the stares for a heartbeat before bolting outside. The front door slammed shut thunderously—a clear sign that he was not welcome at the home of the Argents anymore.

Shame burned him when he apparated back to Grimmauld Place Twelve. He dragged himself up to his room and packed his trunk. He couldn't stay here, not when he would have to contend with Sirius' scorn—scorn richly deserved. Sirius was right about everything.

 _I've been a fool. A coward._

He would begin to untangle the mess tomorrow. For now, he needed somewhere to spend the night. He turned his steps toward the Leaky Cauldron first, but a sudden longing froze him still. Did he have to leap of a cliff right away?

Minutes later, he was knocking on a door in Oxfordshire.

"Harry?"

Daphne asked no questions and led him inside. With a tight throat that had him rasping, Harry muttered a thanks and an apology.

"You're a mess," she said quietly, steering him toward a guest bedroom. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

Reluctant at first—this was quite different than being a guest at the Burrow—Harry got himself into the shower and then the bed. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione haunted him when he closed his eyes. He fell asleep wracked with guilt.

~~oOo~~

As Harry learned the next day, the Greengrass clan rarely enjoyed meals together anymore. It used to be a staple of the summer morning, but since the daughters now pursued their own endeavours, Mr and Mrs Greengrass left them to their own devices. The elders were both gone by the time he woke up, as Daphne told him.

"You're my guest, Harry, but a degree of propriety must be observed," she said, speaking through a gap in the door. "Get up and dressed. I'll meet you in the salon."

Daphne had occupied herself with writing a letter while waiting for him. When he walked in—his clothes had apparently gone through the hands of house elves during the night—she was addressing the envelope with strokes that almost cut through the paper. She tossed the finished letter onto the table as if flicking off an insect. He stole a glance at it before she led him out of the room, catching Blaise's name. In the corner of his vision, he spotted a house elf quietly pop in to snatch the envelope, then promptly wink out of sight.

"Don't mind that," Daphne said, pulling him along. "Our elves are skittish around strangers, and regardless, they prefer to remain outside our notice."

They sat down in a quaint little spot, a table for two in front of an open French door overlooking the gardens.

"Astoria..."

"Won't be joining us," Daphne said. She rested her chin on her hands. "Harry, what happened last night?"

He cast his eyes downward. "I can't say."

She studied him for a moment, then sat back. "Alright. I just hope you know I'm your friend, Harry." She seemed to hesitate before she grasped his hand in hers and squeezed. "You can trust me."

He stared at their intertwined fingers, returning the gesture. There was a closeness between them that felt quite distinct from any kind he'd known before. Something platonic, between friendship and attraction. He would never have the same fire-forged bond with Daphne that he'd shared with Ron and Hermione, but they had connected through experiences equally unique, if perhaps less unforgettable.

"Yes," Harry said, looking up. "I think I can, now."

Breakfast was served like at Hogwarts, plates being magicked onto the table without an elf in sight. Harry ate slowly, more preoccupied with digesting last night's events than the food. Some kind of plan was required. He wasn't very good at making plans.

"I have a lot to do," he said at last. It hadn't come out as confident as he'd imagined it, but it was a start.

"Can I do anything?"

Harry stood from the table. "I'll let you know."

He left the Greengrass estate imbued with a sense of purpose. His first stop was Gringotts—the small fortune left to him by his parents had seemed like a lot to the Harry who lived frugally because he'd never known anything else, but now that he was more liberal with expenses, it would last him another year, perhaps two. He had refused Sirius' many offers to fill the vault with gold to the brim. With the seventh year of Hogwarts looming, Harry was for the first time giving serious thought to his future—and how to pay for it.

Ultimately, he tossed those concerns aside for the time being, and filled his purse with galleons, to then promptly splurge on an apartment upstreet from Diagon. He settled on the first one he was shown, taking advantage of his celebrity to coax out the best property the landlord had to offer, in the attic of a limestone brick building that sat in the centre of Arching Alley.

"It's not a grand mansion," the balding wizard said, thumbs hooked in his waistcoat, "but it's clean, quite spacious for a bachelor, and in a fortuitous location. An eight minute walk from Diagon, and the area's full of upperclass institutions, if one is inclined towards such."

"Very nice," Harry said, peeking into the bathroom. "I'll take it for the summer."

"Splendid! I shall have the contract drawn up—"

"If we could be quite discreet about this… I value my privacy."

"Naturally, sir, naturally!" the landlord exclaimed. "Not a peep from me, not to anyone."

Harry accepted the key, promising to return in the evening to sign the contract, locked himself inside and apparated to across the street from St. Mungo's. Recalling his covert escape from Robards two years ago, he circled the building to enter through that same side door. He willed the Cloak to conceal him as he entered and slipped by the security witch on duty. Three floors up, he broke into a locked office.

"Healer Grayson," Harry said sometime later.

Graham Grayson went stiff still, then slowly looked over his shoulder at him. "Harry Potter… I don't recall you making an appointment."

"It's a spur of the moment thing. I need an urgent consultation. I'll pay whatever you want to charge if you see me right now."

Grayson glanced at the clock on the wall and shrugged. "You're already here, so… What seems to be the problem?"

"My back," said Harry.

"Ah…" Grayson sat down on the nearby chair, legs crossed, fingers tapping on his knee. "Has it been acting up?"

Harry pinched his nose. "I have no idea. I've been taking Snape's potion regularly and it's never been a problem. I don't even know if I still need it."

"You most likely do," Grayson said, leaning forward. "As I said then, that's a serious injury. Dark magic. Such things don't simply go away."

"Regardless, I want to test it." Harry plucked a vial from his pocket and tossed it in Grayson's lap. "I haven't taken the potion today. Twenty-six hours since the last dose. If anything's going to happen, I reckon it won't be long."

"Unwise to risk it, but it's your choice." Grayson rolled the vial between his fingers. "All right, take off your shirt. Let's have a look."

Harry undressed to his waist and sat on the edge of a padded bench while Grayson employed an array of instruments to examine him. He was asked to raise his arms above his head and rotate them, stretch back as far as he could reach—all while struggling through the quiet pain that had been growing steadily since he'd woken up. His grimaces didn't escape Grayson, who nonetheless made no comment until the exam was finished.

"As I suspected, the injury remains as fresh as the day it happened. Whatever spellwork was involved in the creation of that potion, it has wormed its way into you, not unlike a Dark curse. Moody has never been able to regrow his nose. Similarly, I'm afraid this will be your continued reality."

Harry shrugged back into his shirt, straining slightly. The skin on his back felt hot and stiff, not unlike a sunburn. He would love to peel it off and be done with it. Bloody Malfoy, annoying even from the grave. "Fantastic," Harry muttered.

"You know, it doesn't have to be a permanent sentence,"Grayson said, his tone encouraging. "New developments in magi-wizardry are forthcoming, and I'm not an unfailing oracle. Not all treatments come from Healers."

They shook hands and Harry left, his fingers closing a death grip around the glass vial. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead, despite the comfortable chill of the hospital. Time had dulled the memory of pain he'd felt when Mulciber defeated him at Hogwarts, but there was a current tracking up and down his spine that had him anxious. No turning back though. There was one more thing he could try.

~~oOo~~

"You want to… Harry, what—"

"Daphne," he interrupted, tone polite but firm. "I know how it sounds, but it's not up for debate. I need your help, but if you won't—"

"Shut up, Potter," Daphne cut in this time, with a note of resentment in her voice. "Don't try to trick me with guilt. Of course I'll help. I'm just wondering if you've taken a bludger to the skull."

"Not recently, no."

"Oh ha ha. Quite amusing," Daphne said, arms crossed. "Where will you conduct this ridiculous experiment?"

Harry offered his arm. "Got anywhere to be right now?"

He apparated them from the Greengrass estate directly into his new apartment. Bare hardwood floors, bed, wardrobe, desk, chair—the kitchen and bathroom were similarly spartan. Daphne took one look around and, if her face were a clue, found his new accommodations lacking.

"Is this where you're going to live now?" She gave him a pitying look. "Are you certain your godfather won't take you back?"

"He didn't actually throw me out," Harry corrected. "At least not explicitly."

"Then what in the world is this?"

Harry walked up to the window above the desk. It was midday in the height of summer, but the apartment was comfortably cool. Particles of dust danced in a pillar of sunlight. He turned to Daphne. There was a haphazard scheme maturing in the back of his mind, but for now, another answer would suffice.

"I need some distance."

"Then stay at the estate," Daphne offered. "We'll find a remote suite, you'll have plenty of distance."

He smiled. "I think Parvati would object to that."

"Oh, right."

Daphne's vaguely dismissive attitude towards Parvati grated on Harry's nerves a little, but as long as they weren't fighting, it could be forgiven. "Anyway—"

"Why isn't she here?"

Harry blinked. "Why—what?"

"Parvati," Daphne repeated, exaggerating each syllable. "Why ask me and not her?"

"Because she doesn't deserve to be dragged into the maelstrom," Harry said quietly. "And right now, you're my only friend who's already in it."

Daphne crossed the room in a dance-like step and sat on the desk. "Well… what are we doing?"

Harry placed the same vial he'd shown to Grayson on the desk, next to Daphne. "If you see that I'm in unbearable pain, make me drink this, and call for Healer Graham Grayson at St. Mungo's." He snapped his fingers at the fireplace and it came to life, belching flames out into the room.

Daphne held the vial up to her eyes, inspecting the blue potion inside. "I take it that simply doing it at the hospital, under the care of a Healer, was too mundane to tickle your fancy?"

"Not quite." At the flick of his wand the wardrobe snapped wide open and a wire cage shot forth from it. Harry set it down in the middle of the floor. Curled up inside was an ordinary cat, sound asleep.

"Harry?"

He cast a pleading look at her. Daphne was no naive girl, but she lacked true malice. "Don't think less of me for this." He knelt next to the cage, whispering a counterspell. The cat woke up and hissed, rattling its prison. Harry pointed his wand at the creature. _"_ _Promissus Dolor."_

The bond took hold, shocking the cat into silence for a moment. The growing burning that had accompanied him throughout the day vanished, transferred by the curse to the cat, which began meowing pitifully. Harry rose and backed away from the cage.

Daphne asked no questions, merely joining him in observing the cat. The first few minutes were uneventful, but as time ticked away, the quiet protest turned into an incessant yowling, louder and louder, until Harry Silenced the animal. In visible agony, it threw itself around the cage, forced to endure what Harry wanted to doubt despite Grayson's assertion. Almost two years on, Malfoy's magic still clung to him, strong as ever.

"What the hell is this?" Daphne whispered, unable to look away from the show of torture playing out in front of her.

"Not much longer now," Harry muttered, reaching for the vial. He tossed it back in one motion, just as the cat convulsed, then collapsed and went still. The curse was broken and he owned his pain again, thankfully silenced by the potion. "I hoped for something else... but I expected this."

He approached the cage again. The cat was dead.

"Look at it," he said, hands in pockets.

"What's wrong with the stupid cat, Harry?"

She sounded… unnerved. He sighed. "My curiosity killed it. But I had to know. The last time I refused to acknowledge my own limitations, people died." He banished the soft tone, hardened his face. "Do you remember when we met in the Trophy Room?"

"Of course," she said, sliding off the desk. She stood in front of the window, a darkened silhouette. "That meeting saved my family."

"The next time, when I gave you Sirius' reply… I waited after," he admitted. "I thought it was rather cold of you. Secure survival. 'Whoever wins'."

She exhaled deeply, slowly. "I didn't know you back then—"

"Please." He raised a hand and she fell silent. "I understand. That's not why I bring this up."

"Then why?" she asked. Harry discerned the accusation in her tone. "If you don't trust me, then what am I doing here?"

"That's my point," he said, taking a step closer. She didn't back away. "You saw what happened to the cat, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. I had friends before, people I cared about. Now they're dead or gone. If you keep me close, you will get hurt. I don't know how or when, but there's zero chance it won't happen."

The stood in silence for a long, torturous moment. Harry counted the seconds until she would turn and walk away, and he would be alone again. He wouldn't blame her. No friendship was worth being a target for Voldemort.

"Is Parvati going to get the same speech?"

 _That_ surprised him. "I—I don't know. She's not… _in it,_ like you are."

"I guess it's a strange question to ask."

"Err…"

She grabbed his hand briefly, then let go. "You're not a martyr, Harry." Their eyes met and a spark passed between them, a jolt of energy that gave him goosebumps. "And it's unfair to put the choice on me. When _you_ decide, come see me. Or don't. I won't waste away waiting."

The loud, angry crack of apparition shattered the tranquility of the room, leaving Harry swaying on his feet.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Everything is just… _wrong."_

Feeling a steel band constricting around his chest, he flew out of the apartment, in the only direction that, he thought, would grant him some peace of mind.

~~oOo~~

The noises and smells of the Great Hall occupied his senses with a familiar, comforting buzz. Several hundred people laughed, talked, argued, ate and drank. Harry couldn't force back the smile that crowded itself onto his face. He ducked under a low-flying roasted chicken that had sprouted pixie wings. The thing whooshed past him, rocketing down the length of the Gryffindor table.

"Whoops! Sorry about that," hollered Fred—or George—holding up a brightly coloured sticker, then slapped it onto a pitcher of pumpkin juice. A ring of insect-like legs grew around its base, hoisting the pitcher unsteadily, juice sloshing all over. "Fairy Features! We've got legs and wings for now!"

Harry cracked a grin, then turned to follow the pixie-winged chicken. It had risen above the cloud of floating candles and was now plummeting towards the staff table, but was snuffed out of existence before it could do any damage. Snape, with a look of profound repugnance, pocketed his wand.

His gaze sliding along the High Table, Harry met Dumbledore's eyes. The Headmaster raised his cup to him in a toast, and Harry returned the gesture, nodding.

"Hey, Harry…"

His attention snapped back to the Gryffindor table. "Yeah, what?"

Ginny was looking at him expectantly. "What would you like for Christmas?"

"Well…" Before he uttered another word, she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Harry jolted back away from her. She was cold as a stone. "Ginny, are you alright? You're freezing."

She frowned. "We can't _all_ be perfect."

"This isn't a joke, Gin." He cupped her cheek. It was cold and slimy. He now noticed that she glistened in the candlelight, covered in a film of some oily substance. He licked his lips and gagged—the kiss had left some of it on his face and it tasted like… death. It was foul, _Ginny_ was pale, too pale, sickly, _rotting…_

She reached out. He slapped her hand away, disgusted.

"Oi, what the hell, Harry!"

He followed the new voice. Ron stared daggers at him from across the table, looking just as corpse-like as his sister. Next to him, Hermione was watching the three of them, clearly amused. The curl of her lips just didn't _fit,_ and her eyes shone with playful malevolence. She winked, and a bright red flash blinded him.

He woke up staring at the ceiling, his throat dry, his conscience heavy—not just because of past mistakes. Carefully, he wiggled out from beneath the girl who had fallen asleep using him for a pillow. He found his glasses on the bedside table and went into the tiny kitchen for a glass of water. Through the window above the sink, he saw summer rain washing down Arching Alley. In the distance, a thunderstorm was moving away from London.

A pair of arms slipped around his waist. Parvati pressed herself against him. "Can't sleep?"

"Just thirsty," he croaked out. They'd barely spoken since he'd shown up at her doorstep yesterday. He brought her straight here... and there hadn't been much need for words after that.

"It's nice that you have your own place," she said. "Sneaking around my parents' house was getting really awkward, especially after Padma almost caught us."

Harry looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes past eleven, but he wasn't keen on going back to sleep. He cracked open the kitchen window, breathing in the chill of the rainy night. Too awake by half. He had to go somewhere, _move,_ because he would work himself into a frenzy if he just stayed here.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said, turning around to face Parvati. "Sorry love, but I've got to go."

She loosened the embrace. "Now? In the middle of the night?"

"It's not worth explaining, honestly. You should go back to bed, I'll be back before morning."

She grinned and licked her lips in a way that stirred something primal in Harry. "Come on, lover. Since we're both up…"

It was well past midnight when Harry finally stepped out of the flat. The lock squelched, accompanied by a pale flash of runes he had placed around the frame. The ward hardly made the apartment a fortress, but it would warn anyone inside if an intruder tried to force their way in. The safety of this place relied on anonymity. Harry didn't expect that his landlord would be able to keep his mouth shut for long—that was a problem for another day, however.

Up north, the night was clear of rain, but suffocating. He walked up to the very edge of the water. The Black Lake was a flawless mirror for its surroundings: Hogwarts, the Forbidden Forest, mountains in the distance. He apparated again, with barely a whisper to indicate his coming and going. The Boar Gate admitted him at once, the castle recognising one of its own. He still was, though only barely. Hogwarts didn't feel as welcoming anymore. He had a roof over his head, but truly, he was homeless.

The front door opened for him as well, but his nightly visit came upon an obstacle in the Entrance Hall.

"Mr. Potter." Professor McGonagall stood in his way, wand in one hand, a lit lantern in the other, wearing a tartan nightgown and her pointy witch's hat. "What in Merlin's hallowed name are you doing here?"

"Professor Slughorn is spending the summer at the castle, isn't he?"

"Indeed, but I imagine at this hour he will be _sleeping,_ like most people."

Harry tilted his head. "Am I being thrown out?"

"By Merlin's grace, I _should_ do just that," McGonagall said, lowering the lantern. She gave him a disappointed look and sighed. "After tonight, I don't want to see you at Hogwarts until September first, Potter."

She disapparated before he could thank her or apologise. He stared at the spot where she'd been before remembering that she now had the power to apparate on school grounds. He didn't think of Dumbledore often, but always as Headmaster. More than a year after his departure, it was still strange to think of anyone else in the circular office behind the gargoyle.

Slughorn was magnanimous at first, but he turned grumpy once Harry explained that he wasn't seeking to join the Slug Club's social network. They sat down with a glass of mead each.

"What brings you here at such a ghastly hour, my boy?" Slughorn asked, his tone a touch demanding.

Harry raised the mead to his lips, but the spice almost made him sneeze. Was this Hagrid's _special_ ginger? "I need your help, sir. No one else will do, this is a matter for someone like you."

"Ah, right, hmm..."

Slughorn's quick smile didn't escape Harry. Flattery was sweeter to the man than any of his home brews.

"I'm always eager to, ah—assist promising students. What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry described his condition and Snape's potion, produced a sample and the recipe, and waited for the verdict. Slughorn's eyes swept over the instructions quickly, then he held the vial in front of a candle flame, popped the cork and sniffed, finally ingested a single drop.

"This is quite impressive, yes… Severus was always rather, hmm, _adventurous_ in his choice of ingredients and techniques." Slughorn put the cork back in. "I'm afraid I can't help."

Harry rapped his knuckles on the armrest. "Pardon me, sir?"

Slughorn scanned the instructions again. "I've never seen this recipe, nor is it adapted from any I can recall. It is, in fact, an entirely new brew, and put together with the personal touch of a master potioneer. I suspect it could be improved to increase duration, but not through random experimentation."

 _Yes, I know_ that _much already._

"I just thought—with your expertise—"

"I understand, Mr. Potter, but this is a highly complex concoction. I'm afraid that without Professor Snape's original notes, I could only make educated guesses, and that could take Merlin's knows how long."

A grunt escaped him, and Harry caught himself digging into the armrest. A small web of fractures had bloomed under his grip. He placed his untouched glass of mead over it. "I know it was a long shot. Thank you anyway, sir. And sorry for disturbing you in the middle of the night."

He stood and promptly turned around to leave, fixing the Cloak around his shoulders, when Slughorn spoke a word that stopped him dead.

"Grindelwald…"

"What was that, sir?"

Blinking, Slughorn hoisted himself up from the chair, which creaked, relieved of his weight. "Oh, nothing much. I simply, hmm, noticed the ornament. Interesting choice, that."

"What, this?" Harry touched the broach that clasped the Cloak across his chest. Line, circle, triangle. "What does—this is a symbol of the Deathly Hallows."

"Ah, so you know the tale?"

"Yes," Harry said, thinking back to a winter evening with Ginny. "Heard it from a friend."

"That's one association, true," Slughorn said, eyeing his now empty glass. He summoned Harry's abandoned drink. "Although many would argue it has been appropriated by Gellert Grindelwald. The man was obsessed with the Hallows. Nothing more than an old legend, of course, but he was a believer. Scratched the symbol into walls all over Durmstrang. In time, his followers adopted it for his banner."

"Only a legend, sir? You think there's nothing to it?"

"Bah! Items of such power would not remain unfound for hundreds of years!" Slughorn gesticulated lively, spilling some of the mead. "Can you imagine? And Grindelwald—what a sorcerer that was. Criminal, no doubt," Slughorn added, eyes going wide, "but hard not to admire him, just like… Yes, hmm…"

"Just like—whom, Professor?"

Slughorn pirouetted away from that slip of the tongue, gently pushing Harry towards the door. "Anyway, it is uncommonly late. There'll be plenty of time to reminisce about legends when the semester begins. I shall be sending out invitations for the September luncheon in a few weeks' time, so don't miss it!"

The door slammed shut and Harry stood in the dark, quiet hallway, intrigued. He hadn't got what he'd come for, but sheer chance awarded him something else. He made his way back to London, daring faster, longer apparitions, driven like he hadn't been in months.

"Open up!" he demanded, banging on the door. This could probably wait until morning, but what the hell. "Open the door, Mal, or I'll let myself in."

The door swung open and a wand almost poked out his eye. Mallory stood at the threshold in a nightgown, hair tussled. "What. The fuck. Do you want. _Harry."_

He grinned, feeling giddy. His head was spinning, excitement rushing through him. "You're going to send a letter for me."

"Darling, who _is_ that, it's past one—"

Dell Grayson stumbled into the hallway behind Mallory and froze, staring like a stunned gazelle. Harry glanced from Mallory to Dellan, then back to Mallory, and burst out laughing. He howled maniacally evan as she dragged him inside by the collar. Breathless, he staggered into the living room, collapsed into an armchair, and collected himself once he felt the burn of a Stinging Hex in his ear.

"Oh my God," he choked out, struggling to catch his breath. Dellan had scurried out of sight. "Dell, where've you disappeared to? Thank you for that, mate, I haven't laughed like that in a while."

Mallory seemed to be contemplating murder. "You have ten seconds before I castrate you."

"Sure." Harry cleared his throat. "I need to talk to Sturgis."

Mallory's eyes flashed darkly. "I never should have told you."

"But you did, and I need to talk to him. Not through letters, either," he said, rising to his feet. He would never tower over people like Dumbledore, but he had a few inches on Mallory. "I need to sit down with him, face to face. He owes me this much after running from the fight."

"I doubt he sees it like that," Mallory said.

"I really don't care." Harry swept past her, flashing something between a smile and a grimace. "See you in the morning, Mal."

~~oOo~~

Several days later, Harry's slapdash momentum was spent. He had settled properly into his new flat, there was no reply from Sturgis, and he had made no progress on the curse-wound or the elusive mystery of Grindelwald and the Deathly Hallows. He found himself sitting at the desk, looking out on the street below, foot restlessly tapping on the floor.

The fireplace wasn't intimidated by his glare, and he hadn't seen Hedwig in a week—where was that gluttonous bird, anyway? He took to pacing in a circle then, desperately quashing the guilt over his last conversation with Daphne. He had seen Parvati almost every day since then, but sex wasn't filling the hole in his chest. By noon, he admitted defeat. Sturgis' reply wouldn't materialise simply because he wished really hard for it, but there were still things he could do, Sirius be damned.

The Cloak was an unparalleled marvel—it felt like cheating, honestly. He could hide from anyone and anything, slipping through crowds somehow without bumping into people, always finding an opportune moment to go through a door before it was closed. Wearing it, he was damn near a ghost.

Percy—Sirius' eyes and ears in the Minister's wing—now had his own office, adjacent to Crouch's. Harry caught a glimpse of the Minister at his desk before the door was shut. He looked rather more weary than in photographs.

Harry looked both ways—Crouch's staff were very much absorbed by the tiny worlds of their two Aurors on guard were paying attention to the Wireless (England was being trounced by Bulgaria in the last round of qualifications for the next World Cup), but not so much the area they were supposed to be guarding. Quick as a thought, Harry cracked the door open just enough to get inside.

"Not now, please," Percy scolded without bothering to look up.

Harry shimmered into view and pulled down the hood. "I'll be brief."

"Oh. It's you."

"Not surprised to see me?"

"I was expecting you to show up, actually," Percy said. "You usually do when something noteworthy happens. By the way…" He opened a drawer and produced a sealed envelope. "For you."

Frowning, Harry summoned it. The affixed seal was that of House Black. Something akin to anger rose in him as he tore it open.

 _Whatever it is, DON'T._

-Sirius

"Hng." With two sharp moves, Harry shredded the letter and tossed it aside. "So what was that business with Plateau?"

"Can't say. Orders from the Marshal," Percy replied, still scribbling on his stack of papers.

Harry sighed. "I don't think you know how this works." Slowly, deliberately, he unsheathed his wand.

Percy stopped writing and looked up. "Is that how it is now? Might makes right?"

A long, tense moment passed between them, while the answer crystalised in Harry's mind. Voldemort, Dumbledore, Mulciber, Sirius, Sturgis—it came to him only now, how used he was to dealing with wizards of exceptional power. He had never imagined himself to be a part of some elite, but from the moment he stepped into the wizarding world, he had been cast into an arena from which only the strongest emerged, and never unscathed. Perhaps other people could live _normal_ lives—house, job, family, all wonderfully ordinary—but this has never been his direction.

Harry raised his wand. "It's always been that way."


	5. CHAPTER ONE:Graceless is the Fall,Part 2

**CHAPTER ONE: Graceless is the Fall**

 **Part 2**

The portkey Mallory provided cast him, belly first, across the Channel and mainland France at nauseating speed. He arrived thoroughly wind-whipped and confused, staggering through a walled-in garden, over a blooming rose bush, and into a wall. He braced himself against the bricks, glasses dangling from his face.

"What the _fuck—"_

"You only have yourself to blame," a voice called out. "That girl holds grudges."

Once he regained the sense of up and down, Harry straightened himself and looked at where the voice had come from. A wizard stood in a threshold, just far enough inside for the shadow to hide his face. He took a step forward, into the sun.

"Hm. You look different," Harry said.

Sturgis gave a half-smile. "It's been a year. We've both changed." Gone were mercenary leathers, replaced by a form-fitting, yet functional set of robes. More sophisticated, but, Harry imagined, no obstacle in being just as deadly in a fight.

Harry wandlessly summoned the snow globe—he'd dropped the blasted thing upon landing. "I take it that Mallory told you about my late night visit, then."

"She wouldn't do that to an ordinary client." Sturgis frowned disapprovingly. "Barging into her home like that? No manners."

"I've learned my lesson," Harry said, pocketing the portkey. "I'm surprised you even agreed to meet me."

"I had an opening between meeting foreign dignitaries and hunting my enemies. Come along."

The quaint garden belonged to a house, which, as it turned out, sat a stone's throw away from a large square, the heart of wizarding Paris. One side of the plaza boasted ICW's Assembly Hall, and the other three accommodated a mix of government offices and high-class businesses. Harry followed Sturgis in silence across the square, where they sat at an outdoor table, in the shade of a giant umbrella which seemed to have been grown from a small maple tree, its crown forming a perfect circle. Vines climbed the twisted, knotted trunk and drooped down, wiggling constantly.

A waiter came by; Sturgis exchanged a few quick words with him (the waiter looked on with consternation, and Harry wondered what was so strange about the order). He then sat back, one leg crossed over the other, hands intertwined in his lap. "I hope you came prepared with questions, Harry, because I don't have unlimited time to entertain long, dumb pauses."

"Sirius told me the story," Harry said immediately, "About you, Mulciber, and Regulus Black—"

"I'll stake my soul that he didn't tell you everything," Sturgis interrupted, which Harry ignored.

"—the night you disappeared. Was that really why you left?"

Sturgis didn't reply for a moment, studying Harry curiously. "You know, that was also the first question Sirius asked."

Harry blinked in surprise. "You met with Sirius? When?"

Their drinks arrived—without the waiter. Instead, the moving vines brought the tray, tossing it from one limb to the other, to finally set it down on the table with a slight rattle. Conversation momentarily forgotten, Harry stared at the tall, thin glasses. The canary-yellow mix in them looked… _suspiciously cheerful._ Sturgis grabbed his right away.

"At least give it a try," Sturgis said, playing with the tiny umbrella in his glass.

Harry took a sip. It was sickeningly sweet and heavy, just short of syrup, but with a spicy note underneath. Swallowing, he put it away.

"You and Sirius have more in common than you think," Sturgis muttered.

"Why's that?"

"He was likewise critical of this beverage."

"How can you drink that? It's like the idea of sweetness liquified and poured over Firewhiskey."

"Keep your barbaric opinions to yourself." Sturgis enjoyed another healthy sip. "Back to your question… It wasn't just that. I had other reasons, but, true, this _development_ prompted a sooner departure than I had planned."

"You could have helped us," Harry accused. "We could have used a wand like you at the Bone Mound."

"And I shall tell you what I told Sirius—if it had been at all possible to _kill_ Voldemort that day, I would've stayed."

Harry froze. "I was right. You _know_ something."

"I know many things," Sturgis retorted, nonchalant, twirling the cocktail umbrella between his fingers.

"Don't dick me around," Harry snapped.

With a quiet sigh, Sturgis shed the playful smile. "Yes."

"You have to tell me!"

"This isn't a conversation to hold over drinks, not in a place like this."

 _"_ _Sturgis…"_

"I assumed Sirius would have told you." Sturgis replaced his empty glass on the tray and grabbed Harry's. "May I?"

"Sirius? What does he know? Did _you_ tell him?"

"My guess is he knows quite a bit, given that his information comes from Dumbledore."

Rather than spit out the next dozen questions, Harry took a deep breath, let it out, rested his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. He stayed like this for a long minute, wrestling with himself not to take off back to Britain right then to choke every last shred of information out of Sirius—literally, if he had to.

"He didn't even tell me you two met," he said at last.

"Are you surprised?"

Harry looked up, grim-faced, to see Sturgis tilting his head at him, something like condescension in his expression. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've observed Britain keenly over the last year. I can't help but wonder if Sirius isn't, well… disappointed in you. Dumbledore all but gave you his blessing to take over Hogwarts, and—"

"And how do you know _that?"_ Harry cut in.

Sturgis studied Harry's appropriated drink. "I've crossed paths with him."

Harry's fingers curled, grasping at a throat that had escaped him. "Snape?" he asked quietly.

"No," Sturgis replied—and by the look they shared just then, Harry knew it was the truth. "Dumbledore knew to hide him from me. I would've brought him to you. Believe this, if nothing else."

They fell silent again, companions in resentment of the betrayal Snape had perpetrated. Sturgis ordered a new round of drinks, his horrible sweet nectar, and water for Harry. People streamed through the plaza, unaware of the two wizards who contemplated vengeance together. One for himself, the other because he knew no other way.

Harry broke the silence first. "Sirius doesn't trust me anymore."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because Voldemort is still out there, and I've done nothing," Harry said, the admission bitter on his tongue.

"Harry… if this why you sought me out…"

"If what is?"

"I can't be your mentor anymore," Sturgis said. "I've no more time nor want to guide you. I taught you the most valuable lesson I could."

"Killing," Harry said, looking Sturgis in the eye. "It's always wrong, but it can be righteous."

"Killing?" Sturgis repeated, teeth grinding slightly. "It's not _just_ about killing, Harry, and if you think that, then you haven't learned at all."

"Tell me, then!" Harry shot back. "Because what I've taken away from your teachings has lost me friends and won me nothing."

"To kill… is the most profound act a man can do. Every life has its place, its time. To end it before is a great, unique power. It demands respect, which you clearly haven't given. No, you will _listen_ now," Sturgis said, the edge in his voice cutting off Harry's retort. "But beyond that is a larger principle. A distasteful act—but sometimes required. This is what defines the struggle of great men. The world is complex, few things are black and white. The things one must do… Sometimes, we commit necessary evils. That is the burden of people like Voldemort and Dumbledore. Like Sirius. Like me… and you."

"Me? I'm not—I'm not like them. I'm not like you, I'm just—"

"Just what, Harry?" Sturgis demanded, tone sharp. His yellow drink stood forgotten, still full. "Do you really think you're _ordinary?_ Sure, you _could_ graduate Hogwarts, marry a nice girl, have a couple kids, get a cubicle job, and do that every day for eighty years. Nothing's stopping you. But you know the truth—it would be agony. You have such potential. If you keep denying it, it will burn you from inside out."

Harry stared down at the table, thinking back to just a few days ago, his visit with Percy. He wasn't proud of what he'd done, but he was being cut off, he couldn't be blind to what Sirius had pulled with Marcus Plateau. He could have done _worse_ —but he hadn't. And honestly, he wasn't sure how much of him had wanted to continue before he realised this was Percy, for Merlin's sake, not a Death Eater… How much of that had been _necessary?_

"It's not really a choice for me though, is it?" Harry asked, unable to excise the hurt that cracked his voice. "Voldemort made that choice for me. Maybe I would have wanted a normal life…"

"Don't lie," Sturgis said, and his voice struck like the smack of a whip. "Oh, lie to others, lie to everyone you have to, but not to yourself. The choice was taken from you, yes, but all Voldemort did was steer you on a path you would have taken yourself. Ambition is not a sin, Harry, nor is it exclusive to Slytherin. You were never going to be a wizard of small calibre."

 _Terrible, but great._ Ollivander had seen through him, even back then.

"Yes," Harry whispered.

"I didn't hear you."

"Yes," he repeated, louder this time. "I don't want to hide anymore."

Sturgis grabbed his drink and toasted him with it. "Good."

"One more question, if there's time."

"I suppose…" Sturgis glanced at the golden wristwatch he was wearing.

Harry slid a hand under his chin. His outer robe transformed there, revealing the Cloak. He held the silver clasp up for Sturgis to see. "I recall that you wanted to borrow this. It's as if you knew there was more to it than meets the eye. I know what the symbol means, I know Grindelwald was interested in the Hallows, and I suspect you know more about this than most."

"Psh. Now I'm disappointed." Sturgis made a dismissive gesture. "This shouldn't be a mystery. Do you think a wizard like Grindelwald would be interested in an old children's tale if it was just that?"

"So, the Hallows—"

"Are very real," Sturgis said. "There are relics in this world that weren't created by Nicolas Flamel."

"And this is one of them," Harry said, though it was a half-question, half-statement. "The Cloak of Invisibility."

"That is my suspicion, yes," Sturgis agreed. "Ignotus Peverell was an ancestor of the Potters. Given everything I know about your marvelous Cloak, I would be very surprised if it wasn't one of the trinity."

"If the wand and the stone are real too…"

"I'm afraid it's useless to give oneself to such flights of fancy," Sturgis interrupted.

"Fancy?" Harry sat up straighter. "I'd say it's more than that, if the Hallows exist."

"I said they were real," Sturgis corrected. "There has been no mention of the stone for centuries. For all we know, it's been destroyed, or cast into the ocean."

"That still leaves the wand."

Sturgis grimaced. "That is beyond anyone's reach."

"Lost or destroyed, like the stone?"

"No, it's quite intact. I don't know _where_ it is at the moment, but I know exactly who has it."

Anticipation rushed through Harry. He'd heard the tale from Ginny, but never given it much thought. The Hallows seemed too fantastical, even for wizards. But if they were genuine, what else held a grain of truth? What would happen if all three were united? Had it ever been done?

"Don't even think about not telling—"

"Albus Dumbledore," Sturgis said flatly, then gulped down the rest of his drink and stood, tossing a few coins onto the table. "Look at the time. I really must be going."

"Dumbledore? How—what—Sturgis, where are you going?"

"Stay right there," Sturgis said when Harry rose from his seat. "You're not going to get anything more from me, not for a while, at least. I'm not accustomed to spilling secrets like this."

"How long do you need to feel like sharing again?" Harry asked crossly. He couldn't leave it like that.

"You really should stay. She usually comes around four, right after work," Sturgis said, glancing at his watch again. "Be gentle. I imagine this won't be easy for either of you. Whether to approach her, I leave up to you."

"What are you talking about, who comes where?"

Sturgis inclined his head and disapparated, quiet as the sigh of a breeze. Harry looked at his own watch—two minutes past four. He turned in place, looking for familiar faces in the crowd, but there were too many people around. He started when one of the moving vines pushed him out of the way as a half dozen other limbs swiftly cleaned up the table and pushed the chairs in. He palmed the portkey in his pocket, frustrated by Sturgis' abrupt departure and ready to leave himself, when indeed, a familiar face—two of them—broke from the vibrant crowd in the plaza and sat at a table not twenty feet away. Neither noticed him.

He brushed the collar of the Cloak, disguising it completely again, then checked for the wand in the holster and the purse at his belt. He fidgeted, fingers slipping in and out of pockets, manufacturing excuses to delay the decision he had to make—stay, or simply leave and pretend he never saw them here. Before his conscious mind caught up with the rest, he was taking slow, shuffling steps towards their table. The trance broke when he almost tripped on an uneven paving stone. Decided, he shook off the shock, cleared his throat, and approached.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said, hands in pockets. They looked up from the menus.

"'Arry!" Fleur leapt from her chair, pulling him into an embrace and kissing the corner of his mouth. "You should have written me you were coming!"

"It was spontaneous." _Now_ he knew why Sturgis had insisted on Paris.

Fleur summoned a chair for him and all but pushed him into it. Harry turned to the other witch, unsure how to behave.

"Hi, Harry." She smiled, but he saw that it was strained.

"Hello, Hermione."

~~oOo~~

Crowds grew livelier as the afternoon leaned into the evening. Harry truly felt like the third wheel. Fleur and Hermione were at ease with each other, sharing smiles and laughs, though he could tell Hermione was holding back. Fleur, however, either didn't notice their mutual discomfort, or chose to ignore it, waving down colleagues who passed by—apparently the plaza was the favorite spot of Ministry employees, given the number of offices in the area. He sat stiffly, poking the ice cream Fleur had ordered for him without much enthusiasm. Most of it melted into an unappetising-looking soup.

Nearly an hour into this affair, Hermione took pity on him.

"Fleur, I'll see you back home."

Fleur responded with a string of rapid-fire French, already having spotted another of her many acquaintances. She pulled Harry in for another peck on the cheek and at last, they were free to go and be awkward somewhere private. Hermione linked her arm through Harry's and apparated them away.

They arrived in a narrow, dark alley. There was hardly enough space for the two of them to stand side by side. Walls of richly red brick climbed twenty feet up and whatever little sunlight would have reached down here was blocked by foliage above. Before Harry could ask where she'd brought them, Hermione produced a large key, approached one of the black-iron gates spaced through the alley's walls, and crossed the threshold without waiting for him.

At the first glimpse of the garden, Harry recognised the Delacour residence. The gate swung shut behind him. Hermione had already shed her coat and now stood in a summer dress among the gently swaying, manicured bushes that enclosed a circular patio. Harry came closer, hesitant.

Hermione invited him to sit at the small table for two that sat next to a pond. He spotted several colourful fish lazily cruising through the water. A butterfly landed on a blade of grass leaning over the pond, only to be snatched by what looked like a tiny green-and-yellow shark—the fish leapt from the water, catching the butterfly at the top of the arch. Hermione grabbed a handful of flower petals from a bowl near the pond and tossed them in. The fish plucked them from the surface so quickly Harry barely discerned when they came up for their peculiar food.

"What else do they eat?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Tea leaves? Cotton balls?"

Hermione shrugged. "It's Fleur's little project. Last month she'd charmed a viper to breathe through gills and turn vegetarian. I think it's still in there."

A few seconds of silence went by before Harry took the initiative. "Well, it's clear that neither of us knows what to say—"

"How did you know where I'd be?"

He met her eyes. There was an unspoken accusation. She plainly wasn't ready to renew contact. Indeed, before he'd come over to their table, she seemed to be in a rather great mood.

"I wasn't planning to… ambush you like this. I was here on an unrelated matter. I just saw you—coincidence, nothing more."

If she recognised his lie as such, she gave no indication of it.

"You stopped writing," he said. "I missed you, but I figured you needed time away from… all of it. From me."

She looked away, but reached out to grasp his hand as she did. "I don't even know why. I suppose…" She sniffed, and Harry saw a tear before she wiped it off. "I thought things would be easier if I just ignored what I was leaving behind."

They sat in silence for a while, Hermione hidden as well as could be behind a curtain of her hair, him staring down at their joined hands.

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I know I can't erase our fifth year, but I wish we hadn't become strangers."

 _"_ _You're_ sorry?" She laughed, but there was no cheer in it. "You've nothing to be sorry for. You did the best you could."

"But you still blamed me," he said quietly.

She let go of his hand and looked up—there was a flash of guilt in her look, guilt and fear, that squeezed his gut. "No, I didn't mean—don't go, _please."_

Her face softened. "You're right. I blamed you, though you don't deserve it. It's just… this is the first time I've admitted it." She shook her head, as if casting off some suffocating shroud.

They shared a smile, and something broke. The wall of ice that had risen between them after her departure cracked and crumbled. Fortunately, no one else seemed to be home. Harry would have hated to have this private moment interrupted. Hermione led him inside and he sat down at the kitchen table while she made tea.

"So, do you work with Fleur?"

"Oh, it's just a temporary position," Hermione said. "Fleur's with the Foreign Office now. Diplomats love her…"

"I can imagine."

"There was an internship open, and she recommended me. It's only for the summer, and I rarely do more than sort mail or refill the ink, but it's practical experience."

The sun began the final leg of its sinking below the horizon while they chatted the evening away. Harry hungrily drank in anything Hermione shared—what Beauxbatons was like, living with the Delacours, new friends she'd made—not so much because he was interested, but because he was glad to have her back, in whatever capacity she approved. Fleur came in, more dancing than walking, and Harry didn't even know when precisely he accepted the invitation to stay for dinner and overnight. The elder Delacours were nothing less than delighted—or simply too polite to kick him out after Fleur had already offered.

Dinner was pleasant enough, though his evasions didn't escape Hermione's notice. He loathed to divulge anything to do with Hogwarts, Sirius, or anything else, really. Fleur made a show of flirting with him when he let slip that he was seeing Parvati. He almost wanted to berate himself for playing along, but Fleur seemed to bring out a womanizer in him.

Later, he and Hermione were alone in her room—the room he'd stayed in during the ICW conference—and she pounced the moment the door closed.

"I can see you're hiding things, Harry."

As much as he trusted her, as much as he craved the relief of _sharing_ the burden with someone, he followed his first instinct and closed the metaphorical shell. "Everyone keeps secrets. There are some that aren't mine to share."

"And the rest?"

"Dangerous. I won't pull you into another fight. You deserve better."

"Harry…" Hermione sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot beside her. She stared with an intensity he had never felt from her. He gasped for breath as the air suddenly took on a new taste, new smell… Merlin, he'd forgotten.

The Dark Touch was a strange thing—a thick sludge of a feeling that would repulse most people, but to a Dark wizard it was like the sweetest nectar. Hermione wasn't a naive girl, too innocent to know that there were dark things out there. Sirius had rejected him, Remus was gone, Daphne was no Dark witch—who else did he have, really, who else could he trust with his most intimate thoughts, if not Hermione? She had lost just as much, she _understood._

"You can trust me," she said, her voice soft, warm—so unlike the taste of her magic.

Harry swallowed and took a calming breath. "I trust you with my life. I just can't trust you with everything. Not now, not yet. There are things I don't know, questions that require answers… I _want_ to, but—"

"That's alright," she interrupted him. "I understand. There's… distance between us."

"And we will mend it. But... it will take a little time." He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "Goodnight, Hermione."

She stood and pulled him in for a hug. He held her close. It wasn't a _happy_ moment, but he was content. He wouldn't let her go again. In his gut he knew, if he was going to survive, he needed Hermione by his side.

"Goodnight, Harry." She stood on the tips of her toes and he heard her whisper, "I've missed you too."

~~oOo~~

She penned a letter that night, feeling the buzz of nervous excitement. The object of the letter slept in the room across from hers. She stood with an ear to his door for a long minute before she dared to slip downstairs, barefoot. The Delacours kept two family owls.

"You know who," she whispered, tying the envelope to the leg of Deveraux—he was fast and quiet, and not easily spooked. She watched him take off and shoot upwards between the tree branches—he was gone in a blink.

Cool grass tickled her feet as she crossed the garden. Looking up, she froze, seeing a light in one of the windows, until she realized it was her room. She'd left the desk lamp on. Quick as a ghost, she made her way inside and upstairs. Deveraux would be back with a reply by dinnertime. Thankfully, it was the weekend—no need to write her boss for a day off.

Fleur woke her in the early morning hours, knocking rapidly. "Hermione, he's leaving! Come say goodbye."

She found the two of them in the kitchen over coffee and waffles. Harry was already dressed to go and looking somewhat conflicted that Fleur was rubbing her foot against his leg under the table. Hermione rolled her eyes. Fleur just smiled shamelessly.

"Are you sure you can't stay a bit longer?" Hermione asked. "Gabrielle would love to see you. She's visiting a friend, but she's due back today."

"Afraid not," he said, standing. "I've got some things to sort out. Thanks for the waffles, Fleur."

Fleur winked at him, licking coffee from her lips. Hermione yawned and pulled Harry in for a hug. "I'll write you next week."

"Will you really?" he muttered into her ear.

"Of course." She held him tight until Fleur demanded a proper goodbye. They saw Harry off at the doorstep with another waffle to go. He waved it at them, smiled, and disapparated. Hermione smacked Fleur's arm. "He said he was seeing someone."

"Oui, je sais!" She laughed and twirled in place before going back inside.

As predicted, Deveraux returned just as they sat down for dinner. Gabrielle had come home with green mermish hair braided into her own—her friend's family lived in an estate on the coast of the Mediterranean. Fleur pulled a chair up behind her little sister, more interested in how light played on Gabrielle's hair than the duck roast on the table. Hermione stood up to collect an envelope from Deveraux, rewarding him with a caramelised carrot.

"Who's that from?" asked Madame Delacour. Hermione stifled a groan. The woman was kind, but also was _very_ interested in everyone's comings and goings.

"Jean-Philippe," Hermione replied. "He's inviting me to spend the rest of the weekend in Marseilles."

"When are you going to bring him to dinner?" Fleur asked. "I'm starting to think he doesn't exist."

"We're not at that stage yet," Hermione said, pocketing the letter.

"But you're at the stage of weekends in Marseilles?"

"You're impossible."

She deflected questions about her nonexistent boyfriend like she had been for weeks. She would have to come up with a different lie soon. Excusing herself from dinner, she returned to her room and looked at the letter again. At her permission, the white paper flicked into silver, the black ink rearranged itself.

 _Casa d'Agrattsi, tonight. Dress appropriately, dear—everyone is coming._

As soon she read the words, her left arm burned. She hissed, more in irritation than pain—she was used to it now. She whispered the spell and ran two fingers down the length of her forearm. The skull and serpent came into view, coal black and hot to the touch. The summons was urgent; this wouldn't be an ordinary gathering.


	6. CHAPTER ONE:Graceless is the Fall,Part 3

**CHAPTER ONE: Graceless is the Fall**

 **Part 3**

The trail of markings began at the left eye and slashed diagonally across the face to the right cheek, where it ended in a spiral of tiny runescript. Two small limbs grew out from the main branch, one up, one down. Both paths were possible, one was preferable. The others in the Inner Circle hadn't cared to welcome her, and with so many vacancies she would have to fight just to keep her head above water.

Hermione raised the cowl of her robe and held the mask to her face—it came alive, silver shifting to cling to her like a second skin. She hated the masks, the faux ceremony of it all. A show with an audience of one. But the Dark Lord enjoyed the theatre, so she obeyed.

Throwing open the balcony door, she looked out at the Adriatic Sea. The night was hot and humid, the breeze helped little. Thank Merlin for magic, or she'd be pouring with sweat already. She turned a copper coin in her hand, taking the last calming breath. Another turn and the portkey whisked her away from the hotel room.

Casa d'Agrattsi sat atop one of the tiny islets scattered between Italy and Croatia. The manor seemed to grow straight out of the rock. The portkey deposited her in a rectangular courtyard—the building loomed from three sides, while the last was open to the sea, a slim railing the only barrier between terracotta tiles and the waters below.

Everyone else was already present, all similarly dressed and masked—Greyback, as always, stood out in his fur-collar coat. His mask was wild like him, decorated in aggressive slashes and sharp-contoured symbols, telling of the violence he revelled in. The werewolf stood apart from the rest, braced against the railing, his coat flapping in the wind. Hermione had little interaction with him—he was the busiest of them all these days, rousing support in Eastern Europe. She didn't know much of the wizarding communities there, except that they were more scattered and less… polite.

"Hello," she said, standing next to him.

"Still haven't run away?"

Hermione joined the werewolf in looking out at the sea. "Who would the Dark Lord send after me if I did?"

"Not Bellatrix."

"How could you know that?"

Greyback leaned in. "Because she'd kill you, girl. The Dark Lord wouldn't let you off so easy." He seized her shoulder and turned her towards the others. "S'time."

"Ah, the pet has arrived. I hoped you were dead."

Hermione didn't rise to the bait. There was nothing to be gained in trading insults with Bellatrix. She seemed to take personal affront from Hermione's mere presence.

Escalation was averted by the doors swinging open. Demetra Agrattsi quickly backed away into shadow, head bowed, to let them through. Hermione hadn't seen her father in months, though she knew he was alive.

Candelabras lit up, showing them the way. The party climbed the wide spiral staircase to the second floor, where they entered the dining room with west-facing windows. The Dark Lord stood with his back to them, his silhouette dark against the setting sun. Hermione flinched when the door slammed shut behind her.

"Take your seats," the Dark Lord said. Chairs slid back from the table at his command. Hermione sat down as far away from her master as she dared without plainly separating herself from the group. There were only six of them at the huge table that could seat thrice that number. One by one, masks came off.

"There will be no feasting tonight," the Dark Lord said, still facing the window, hands clasped behind his back. "We have nothing to celebrate, so I am not in the mood."

"My Lord—"

"Have you found Jervis Mulciber, Bellatrix?"

"No, but—"

"Snape?"

"I—no, my Lord."

"Then be _silent."_

The room fell quiet as a graveyard. Not even Greyback dared make a noise. Hermione sat ramrod straight, attentive, but wanting nothing more than to bolt from the room and run beyond the horizon, then further, until she was so far from Voldemort's mind that he would forget about her.

A fool's hope.

"We were dealt a heavy blow at the Bone Mound. I expected you to rise to the task while I couldn't." Voldemort turned to face them with a look of cold disgust. "Once again, you have failed me, as you had sixteen years ago."

"My Lord, we have followed your orders exactly as you commanded."

"I did not ask for apologies, Augustus. The blame is shared between all of you. A long year, and Sirius Black still holds station in Britain, traitors continue to elude us… Our enemies are on the rise, while we have shrunk."

"Am I responsible for the failures of others?"

All heads snapped towards Greyback. The werewolf stared at Voldemort with defiance Hermione hadn't seen since Mulciber abandoned them.

"I have brought werewolves and wizards to your banner. Word spreads in the east. They come to me, now."

"I don't deny your accomplishments in attracting brutes, Fenrir, but thuggery alone will not carry us to victory." Voldemort looked each of the Inner Circle in the eye; Hermione shrunk into her seat when he reached her. "Not while the enemy is led by _your equals."_

"My Lord, I beg you to forgive the dog's insolence," Bellatrix cut in, leaning forward. Her hand snaked across the table towards Voldemort, but she seemed to catch herself and sprang back. "I ask for one last chance—I will bring you the traitors if I have to chase them across the world."

"No." Voldemort straightened, towering above them. "Perhaps there's my own fault in this. I thought you'd make a good hunter, but your talents shine best elsewhere." He closed a fist, and when he opened his hand again, he held a small dark stone. "You'll know what to do with this, won't you?"

"Yes, my Lord," Bellatrix whispered with reverence, accepting the artefact.

"You shall depart for Britain at your earliest convenience. Aurora Fawley will have further directions for you. Rookwood, Dolohov… no one is better positioned to combat Black's influence. He'll be dealing with goblins soon, I expect. These negotiations shall _not_ go smoothly for him."

The two Ministry spies looked relieved for a fleeting moment, but a glare from Voldemort snapped them back into discipline.

"The goblin chief is short-tempered, my Lord. It won't take much to stir him up," said Dolohov.

 _"_ _Good._ Fenrir…"

The still silence of before took the room over for a moment while the Inner Circle held their breaths.

"Have you encountered Remus Lupin at all in the last year?"

"...my Lord?"

Voldemort tilted his head and gave a hungry smile. "I understand that you have a soft spot for those you've turned." The smile dropped. "Do not bother lying."

There was a pause brimming with suspended malice while Greyback, taller than Voldemort and twice as broad, were he standing, tried to untangle his tongue. "He's not a threat. Last I saw him, he was mired in sweat and blood, selling his fists for parthdust."

"Such a shame," Voldemort said, his fingers drumming on the table. "Remus Lupin is a capable soldier if he has a master's whip at his back. All of us here could use his skill."

Bellatrix's face creased, she gripped the edge of the table. "You mean to recruit him?"

"Not at all," Voldemort said, still staring at Greyback. "Fenrir will do it."

"Lupin won't join us," Greyback protested. "His loyalties lie with Black. With Dumbledore."

"He's your kin, Fenrir. Lost, as so many others. I shall build a world where wizards of his calibre will thrive. Bellatrix, dear," Voldemort turned to her, caressing her cheek with a long, pale finger, "he wouldn't be the first lost soul I raised from despair."

The Dark Lord dismissed most of the room then. Bellatrix made sure to glare at Hermione on the way out. Greyback pushed past the others to leave first, his quick steps echoing in the hall. A short growl could be heard, then a loud gasp—he must have come across one of the servants.

The door closed gently behind Dolohov and only two of them remained. Amycus Carrow had sat through the meeting barely moving, more akin to a statue than a man. Hermione didn't think she'd even seen him breathe once throughout.

"Amycus… it appears you have misplaced your sister."

"Rakeharlaw," he said at last, his voice scratchy, as if he hadn't spoken in days. "The goblin betrayed us to Black."

"I've something to take your mind off dear Alecto." Voldemort produced a folded note and slid it across the table to Carrow, who took one glance at it, crumpled it, and left without another word.

Hermione choked on a hitched breath. The sunset had left only the last hints of orange-pink light peeking inside the otherwise dark room. The room was bare save for the table and chairs, lacking the usual opulence the Dark Lord enjoyed. Nothing to shield her from him.

Voldemort remained where he had been, in front of the window. Hermione could scarcely make out his face in the shadow now—with the exception of his eyes. That bright red shone with its own light, like flickering candles.

"My dear girl," he said slowly, enjoying every syllable. He smiled once more. Red eyes, white teeth, dark face—a demon in human skin. "I don't know whether to scold you for trying, or applaud the change of heart in the end."

From his robe, he pulled out a cream-white envelope. Her throat burned. She swallowed thick, oily fear.

The Dark Lord opened the envelope and unfolded the letter within.

"Dear Harry," he read aloud, "I'm sorry for what I'm about to show you. I had no choice. When the Dark Lord takes you, he holds you body and soul. There is no fighting him. Watch the memories. I hope you can forgive me."

She bit back a cry. Her face was hot from the mediterranean evening. She wanted to apologize, but all she managed was a quiet croak.

Voldemort then held up a vial of swirling spiderwebs—a carefully curated tale, an explanation and plea for help, for forgiveness and redemption. She had written the letter this morning in her hotel room, packaged the memories inside the envelope, determined to send it off to Harry and hope for rescue. Guilt and fear closed a grip on her, and she tossed the owl out of the east window instead, to Casa d'Agrattsi. She'd wished the owl had fallen prey to a hawk, suffered heat stroke and sunk, something, _anything_ —

"I will take my punishment, my Lord," she whispered, barely hearing her own voice.

Voldemort crushed the vial. Shards of crystal fell, blood and un-substance of memories dripped from the closed fist. "I do not often give second chances. Consider this yours."

She breathed out in relief. "Thank you…"

"You frustrate me as much as you intrigue me," said Voldemort. The shards embedded in his hand crunched as he attempted to grind them into dust. "I truly thought I had learned the depth and breadth of Grindelwald's secrets… I had never imagined something so _bizarre_ as living horcruxes. You, Jervis, your dear Harry and his uncle—you are all a great experiment whose conclusion I _eagerly_ anticipate. In the end, one of you will live. I would very much like it to be you, but _adjustments_ can always be made."

Hermione looked down to her lap, her hands wringing together restlessly. "Yes, my Lord."

"Splendid. Get out."

 _—_ _she ran, crashing through the door, skipping four, five stairs on the way down—she grimaced when she slipped, her ankle twisted and bent, but she kept running, turning the copper coin once before she even reached the courtyard, then a second time when her other foot caught on an uneven paving stone—back in the hotel, she tore off the dark robe, hexed the mask into pieces—straight to the portkey terminal, she could be in Britain within an hour, with Harry, Sirius, with friends, safe—_

She dismissed the fantasy. Ridiculous. She stood, reapplied the mask and left the Dark Lord, walking slowly, matching footsteps to her breathing. It would not do to dwell on impossibilities. There was work to be done.

~~oOo~~

Harry weighed the snowglobe in his hand, frowned, and pocketed it. No doubt Mallory would alert Sirius to his return. Decided, he headed for Paris' portkey terminal and paid his way for a legal trip back across the Channel.

London greeted him with a drizzle and an overcast sky. He stepped out into Diagon Alley and stood in the rain, collecting his thoughts. Water slid off of the Cloak as if it were coated in oil. His first instinct had been to go straight to Grimmauld Place and knock on Sirius' door—with the Bludgeoning Hex, if he had to—but the weather cooled him off.

He clenched a fist. Bloody hell, he would have done it again—barged in without a plan, angry, reckless—and he would have failed, like so many times before.

Enough.

Up in the perch of his top-floor flat, Harry locked himself away and put the wider world out of his thoughts for the moment. Raindrops raced down the window while he scrambled some eggs and fried up bacon. He ate slowly, leaning on the sink, considering his next step. Before any plan was formed, his peace was breached when he heard the lock squelch open. Bacon and eggs were on the floor and wand in his hand as the door swung inward.

"Oh. You're here."

Harry stared dumbfounded for a second, then recalled giving Parvati a spare key.

"Hey," he mumbled.

"You dropped your breakfast," she said, closing the door. Harry looked down, his thoughts scrambled like the eggs at his feet.

 _"_ _Scourgify."_ The mess cleaned itself up. Parvati took off her coat and spelled it dry. "I was just going to leave the key, but since you're back from your trip… How was France, anyway?"

"Fine. I had to meet with someone." Instinct told him bringing up Hermione would do no good. "Why were you going to leave the key?"

"Well, the key, and this…"

Parvati placed the key and a folded note on the table, and Harry was struck by guilt. _Not again…_

"I think I can guess what that is, but I don't want to be right."

"Oh?" Parvati's eyes went from the envelope to Harry. Her face said nothing, which Harry found to be a bad omen. She usually couldn't help but show exactly what she felt. "What do you think it is, then?"

Arms crossed, Harry took his time answering. He wanted to stall, shift the responsibility of uttering the words stuck in his throat to Parvati, but she seemed content to let him stew.

"You're going to make me say it…" He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at his feet. "We're breaking up, aren't we?"

Now, an impulse cracked's Parvati's veneer of calm. "Do you want to?"

The immediate instinct was to blurt out _no_ —but then he bit his tongue. That which he valued most in their relationship was also putting the strain on it. He enjoyed leaving all his troubles outside the bubble when they were together, but he couldn't delay them forever. Eventually the chaos that was his life, the fight he had chosen, pulled him away from idyllic afternoons. Parvati provided refuge from it all, but he imagined she felt left out when he discussed these things with Daphne, or when he clearly had little to talk about that wasn't connected to Voldemort, Death Eaters, or his own studies of Dark Arts. In the company of normal people, he was shallow.

It would be selfish of him to hold on to her when she could be with someone who shared her interests, someone without a target on his back. But… did he owe it to anyone else to be a martyr? It wasn't his bloody fault—the prophecy, Voldemort—he was trying to make the best of a bad deal.

"No, I don't."

Parvati sighed and came closer. "I don't want to, either."

Damn it all, he did owe it to _her_ to be honest. "But I also don't want to… _trap_ you."

She smiled. "Harry. You are—complicated. I don't mind that. But I think there are some things you need to do, and I won't be the sad girl who waits and waits, only for the boy to not come. So, I'm going to give you some time. My cousin is getting married at the end of August. Padma and I are going to India to help with wedding preparations."

"It takes a month to plan a wedding?"

Parvati giggled. "It can be quite endearing when you're so clueless. It's a big wedding. Four hundred guests."

"Is your cousin a princess of some sort?"

Parvati tilted her head. "Close enough."

"All right. They'll need all the help they can get, then."

"I will see you on the Hogwarts Express." She leaned in for a goodbye kiss, but Harry pulled her close and held on. She put her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoes, bringing their bodies together. They broke for air, their breaths quickened.

Parvati gently bit his earlobe. "My portkey doesn't leave until three."

Harry picked her up and staggered toward the bedroom.

~~oOo~~

The bliss of the morning tryst left Harry along with Parvati. They parted after stealing one more kiss on her way out, but reality slammed into him with full weight the moment the door closed behind her.

He wasn't privy to when the Argents were meeting next, and he didn't much fancy stalking one of Sirius' people until they did. Few of them were easy to follow, anyway. He need to find one who would keep silent about Harry asking questions. Someone who wasn't necessarily loyal to Sirius, but rather after something Sirius could facilitate.

There was one such person.

Corvin Savage agreed to meet Harry that afternoon, in a particularly odorous corner of the London docks. The area was in a sorry state—warehouses with walls of rotting, greenish planks, roofed with rusted sheet metal. There was no one around—a few stray cats rummaged through discarded fish barrels.

"This looks like the muggle part of town," Harry said, struggling not to cough as they passed by an open storehouse giving off a dreadfully fetid stench. Had something died inside?

"It's a grey zone," said Savage. He stopped and uprighted two barrels—one to sit on, the other as a table to stuff a short pipe with something that made the docks smell like a Vertic Alley boutique in comparison. Harry quashed the urge to ask. "Too close to the muggles, too far from the drinking houses. No one goes here except smugglers."

"Is that what they have you doing?"

"I'm something of an expert on that industry, but this was a special assignment by the Head Auror."

"Hmph." Harry frowned as he looked around the dirty alley they occupied. He could see the Thames at the far end, peeking between two dilapidated sheds. "Kingsley's trying to break up Sirius' people."

"I don't know much about that—and I care even less. I joined him because he promised a chance to make things right."

"Do you think you can?"

Auror Captain Alania Savage—Corvin's sister—had been killed in battle when Voldemort infiltrated the Department of Mysteries.

"'Course not," Savage said. "Unless you know of magic to bring back the dead."

"So why go with Sirius?"

"Because _someone_ has to do _something,_ and he's the only one doing anything. So, anyway—you had a question?"

"Yes. When's the next time the Order meets?"

Savage gave Harry a look like he was considering telling him to sod off, but then turned his attention back to his pipe. He tapped it with his wand, and almost immediately, the intense stench became a pleasant, breezy aroma of the freshest mint and ripe citrus. "Tomorrow. Just the officers though."

Harry nodded in thanks and turned on his heel to disapparate, but stopped mid-spin. "Why tell me? Sirius would've forbidden it."

Savage gnawed on his pipe before answering. "Presently, he's the only option. I'm not a fanatic. I just think the Ministry needs a proper shakin'." A shadow moved in the narrow slice of view they had of the river. "That's for me."

"What are they smuggling?" Harry asked as Savage rose to his feet.

"A nundu."

Harry perked up at that. "Need another wand?"

"Nah." The Auror pulled back his coat and palmed his belt, where several pouches and vials were strapped next to his wand holster. "I'll see yah, Potter."

Harry was tempted to follow Savage—how does an Auror deal with a smuggled nundu?—but ultimately, he decided to head back. Anything else he thought of doing could wait until he talked to Sirius.

He apparated to Arching Alley and took the lift in his building to the top floor. Immediately, he was struck by a feeling of _otherness_ permeating the hallway. The top floor housed four apartments, but in the weeks of habitation Harry had only seen his neighbours in passing. None had ever struck him as dabbling in anything nefarious. How curious, then, that the hallway bore a distinct smear of something _extraordinary_ about to take place.

Lamps in the hallway were doused out. Windows at either end were closed, but their sheer curtains wove about, as if from wind, or recently disturbed. It was unnaturally quiet. Nothing creaked, or whooshed or scratched or scraped—unusual in a wizarding residence.

The Dark Touch lingering in the air.

Harry took measured, silent steps toward his flat, wand in hand. He grasped the doorknob with his left, but stopped short of turning it. There was a fresh lick of Dark magic on his front door. Careful not to trip up the enchantment placed on it, he retreated to the window overlooking Arching Alley and cast the Unlocking Charm.

The door opened and all hell broke loose.

A volley of spellfire shot through and rattled the vertical cage holding the lift. Several curses burned through the wall around the door. Harry, armed with the Shield Charm, waited.

"Stop, stop!" someone yelled from inside his flat. "He's not there!"

"Someone Unlocked the door!"

"He's got to be here, _find him!"_

Harry willed the Cloak to hide him just as four Death Eaters came through. One of the neighbours—an older chap, potion enthusiast and nosy—poked his head out into the hallway. The Death Eaters halted, just as surprised.

"Oh sweet Morgana!"

A wand rose to curse the old wizard into the next life, and Harry chose this moment to intervene.

He Banished his neighbour's door shut. The Death Eaters reacted at once, casting sweeping curses that had the hallway burning in a blink. Harry, shielded from the fallout, stepped through the flames and allowed the Cloak's invisibility to fall.

"Pott—" The Death Eater didn't finish, because his own robe wrapped around his head like a choking turban. Harry took three quick steps, ducked under a wand and kicked, sweeping the second Death Eater's legs from under them.

The last two responded with more spellfire, but Harry was one move ahead. He apparated behind the enemy's back and with a tap the third Death Eater collapsed, asleep. A firewhip shot from his wand and lashed the last Death Eater still standing. The Death Eater screamed and dropped his wand as the line of solidified flame burned through his robes.

The first two had recovered, but Harry Summoned their wands away before they could get to them. He flicked his wand at the elevator cage—metal bars shot forth and snaked around their ankles and wrists.

Harry conjured a blast of wind—it hurtled through the hallway, snuffing out the fires. "I expected better. Is Voldemort running out of decent wands? _Accio."_

Four white masks tore themselves from the Death Eaters' faces. Harry froze for a moment, looking at the one bound by fire.

A door opened again. This time, the old wizard across the hall poked his wand out first, then dared take a look. With a swift gesture, Harry unclasped the Cloak from his shoulders and had it fall over the one Death Eater he recognised.

"Call the Aurors," Harry said. He grasped his prisoner by his invisible throat and disapparated. Kingsley was welcome to the others.

They arrived in the unkempt yard at the rear of House of Black. Harry retrieved the Cloak. The Death Eater stared up at him stone-faced.

"What am I going to do with you, Zabini?"

~~oOo~~

His arrival went barely noticed by the busy contingent of house elves, goblins, and wizards. The thestral-drawn carriage that had been waiting for him at the edge of the property landed with a crash and the door snapped open like popping corn, as if urging him to get on with it. Indeed, no sooner than he'd stepped outside, thestrals smacked their wings and the carriage was pulled up near vertically.

The heart of the scene before him was half-charred ruin, half pristine manor. A gaggle of goblin architects argued in their throaty language, punctuating their debate with animated gestures. At their command, a young wizard—a kid younger than Harry—blasted apart a wall of blackened bricks. One of the goblins switched to German and berated the boy, who shouted back something that had the goblins pin him with glares.

A few dozen yards away from this spectacle, a witch with arms covered in dirt up to her elbows directed a platoon of house elves as they attempted to plant a gargantuan oak in a well-like hole.

Sturgis was sparing no expense in constructing his new home.

"Master Black," someone called. "If you'll follow me."

"I know you," said Sirius, scrutinising the witch who had come forward. His eyes narrowed. "Camilla, was it?"

She blinked, but didn't rise to the bait. "Sturgis is expecting you."

Sirius followed. "I do hope there's a good reason for my being here. It's not like I've got nothing better to do."

Camilla said nothing.

They entered the renovated wing, into a two-story solarium hugging the building from the south side. There, dressed as casually as Sirius had ever seen him, in a white shirt and striking blue waistcoat, Sturgis sat at a small round table, adding crushed leaves to a pot. All around them, a range of mundane and magical plants swayed and brushed against each other, filling the cavernous space with a constant whisper. Despite the brilliant sunlight streaming in from above, the place was pleasantly cool.

Camilla had disappeared. Swearing under his nose, Sirius approached the table and sat on the only other chair.

"Why am I here?"

Sturgis stirred the tea—probably one of his baffling poisonous concoctions—and poured himself a cup. "What are you drinking? I didn't want to presume."

Clearly, Sturgis wasn't going to make this quick. "Butterbeer. As cold as you have it."

Sturgis snapped his fingers and an ice-crusted bottle appeared on the table. "I thought we could catch up."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Is that it? We're _catching up?"_

"Well, there's another matter, but it can wait a little longer." Sturgis took a large sip of his tea, unbothered by the heat. "How's Harry doing?"

"I assume he's fine."

"You _assume?"_

"I haven't seen him in a while."

"So, you haven't had a chance to talk after he got back, I take it."

"Got back from where?" Sirius popped the cork on the bottle with his thumb. "Have you brought him here as well?"

Something sleek and fast moved among the thick foliage. Both their heads turned to look, but they saw nothing.

"Probably the occamy," said Sturgis.

Sirius grunted. "How'd you keep it from growing in here?"

"I didn't. It's only just hatched yesterday. It'll be some time before it can grow. But back to our conversation… I saw Harry yesterday, in Paris. He had some questions."

"What questions?"

"That's between me and him," Sturgis said, his eyes flashing with steel resolve. Sirius continued to be mystified by Sturgis' respect for Harry. "But I did tell him he should ask you about horcruxes."

Sirius stiffened with the bottle halfway up to his mouth. He replaced it on the table with a _thunk._ "And _that_ is between _me_ and him."

"I told you this a long time ago—you can't keep this from him forever. I know Harry well enough to say that he _hates_ being left out." Sturgis set his teacup down. "You may not know how a horcrux is made or how exactly it works, but you know what it's for. Defeating Voldemort is no longer about killing him… unless you're ready to make the ultimate sacrifice."

The bottle cracked under Sirius' fingers. Not even Dumbledore had so plainly spelled out what Sirius didn't want to admit.

People would have to die before Voldemort could—and Sirius wasn't ready to depart this world.

"How do I tell him?" he hissed. "The one thing keeping him going is wanting to kill Voldemort. How do you tell a kid he carries a part of what he hates most in himself?"

"Stop thinking of Harry as a child."

"Not while he acts like one."

Sturgis breathed in, then out, taking his time. "There's another way. Follow me."

They exited the solarium into a softly lit hall, where they climbed up several flights of stairs, to the attic. The ceiling here was lower, the walls were bare stone and brick, the ribbing of the roof exposed. Sturgis opened one of several doors. The only furniture was a heavy table, and on it lay several scrolls of slick, black parchment and a complex contraption, the purpose of which Sirius couldn't begin to guess.

"What's that?"

Sturgis ran a hand down one of the many tubes connecting different sections of the device. They looked to be made out of a variety of precious metals—gold, faerie cold iron, even goblin steel. "It's an incomplete soulcatcher."

"A what?"

Sirius spent the better part of the afternoon prodding Sturgis for answers. It seemed… too _miraculous._ How could this machine be the answer?

"Do you have a better idea?" Sturgis asked, somewhat irritated. "I've investigated this issue thoroughly, and I haven't found another solution. It's this… or death."

"Alright." Sirius regarded the core of the device. "So the only that's missing is a power source."

"Yes, that's the only element I don't have, but the construction is still underway. I'm having to consult some hard-to-reach people to move the work along."

"Perhaps I could help with that."

"I appreciate the gesture, Sirius, but your talents are better employed directly confronting Voldemort's own efforts."

"The power source—where are you going to get it?"

"Not me." Sturgis moved to leave the room. "I'm rather busy with other matters, but there's someone I can send instead."

"Who could be trusted with this?"

They returned to the solarium, where another wizard awaited them. Sirius balked and went for his wand. "You're taking the piss." He stepped to the left, putting Sturgis between himself and the third man. "Did you two make a deal to kill me?"

Jervis Mulciber had just finished off Sirius' butterbeer and discarded the empty bottle. "Our deal has nothing to do with you. You're not the centre of my universe, Black."

"How dare you?" Sirius whispered, leaning in toward Sturgis, who stood relaxed, seemingly unconcerned with the wand jabbing into his neck. "How dare you bargain with him?"

"We have a common enemy," said Sturgis. "Put your wand down, Sirius. We're not cursing each other today."

"Why shouldn't I kill you both and take the soulcatcher? I doubt you're as irreplaceable as you think you are."

Mulciber rolled up his right sleeve. "That's why."

"What are you talking about—" But then he saw it. Faint lines where the spell-bond would have taken hold. Unnoticeable, unless the bearer intentionally points them out. Sturgis, still with a wand at his throat, mirrored Mulciber, revealing identical markings on his right arm.

"We have an ironclad agreement," Sturgis said. "As long as Voldemort is a threat, there's no reason why we can't work together."

A tense minute slipped away, though Sturgis and Mulciber looked entirely relaxed. "Fuck me," Sirius swore, but lowered his wand. "You're going to send _him_ to find the power source?"

Sturgis gave a dark smile. "Jervis isn't quite in the shape he used to be. This quest promises to be a challenging journey. I thought he could use a partner."

Sirius' brow creased as he considered it. Robards, or possibly Savage were skilled enough to accompany The Butcher without too high a risk of ending up dead, but they couldn't be spared.

"I hardly believe I'm even considering it… In any case, I have no one who's up for this. I won't send one of my people to be murdered when he gets bored," Sirius said, glaring at Mulciber. Mulciber smiled.

"Not exactly what I had in mind," said Sturgis. "You wouldn't happen to know where we can find Remus Lupin?"


	7. CHAPTER TWO: Dying of the Light, Part 1

**CHAPTER TWO: Dying of the Light**

 **Part 1**

He was seeing through a filter that robbed the world of colour and sharpness. Among the blind, a one-eyed man was king. Among beast-eyed kin, _he_ was blind.

Hot and cold. He was sweating, then shivering. He tossed and squirmed, something held him down. He couldn't move, something poked and prodded, perhaps making sure he was alive. It wouldn't be a great loss if he weren't. He had thought about it. For weeks. Months.

Then he snorted the dust and stopped thinking.

Nothing else made a man feel so alert, so _aware._ He could tell the wind shift when a door cracked open, every stone told a story when he walked upon them. In the ring, he gained a sixth, seventh, eleventh sense, seeing an opponent's every move before they intended it. He shattered bones with nary a touch, so perfect was his technique when the dust brought reality into an impossibly stark contrast. The crowd threw money at him. Money bought more dust, dust won him more money, and the circle was complete. Who would bother keeping track of time? He lived walking a tightrope above a bottomless void.

The crowd cheered. They hadn't seen his like since somesuch of yore! Here's gold, here's parthdust, now break another spine! One challenger was tougher than the last, but none matched him when he stood so tall. A vampire sniffed him out, a threat of spindly limbs and deathless strength. He slinked back into his lair chased by jeers.

He won, won, won, and kept winning. Challengers grew fewer. The crowd grew bored. On a cold day, he ran out of gold, and the world snapped. That was when the shivers began.

Someone in a moss-covered inn remembered him. The hag told the neighboring table how he had rescued twins, a boy and girl, from their father. The sorcerer was cross with their mother, who had hidden the children away from him, because he was violent and cruel. The patrons nodded in appreciation. Someone took pity and bought him a glass of distilled venom with a pinch of parthdust mixed in, but no one was mad enough to recommend him for a job. That night, he spent the last of his money to hire a room and sent his first letter in months. It returned unopened, with a terse note attached: _You have to find your own way back._ He had no presence of mind to even lament the rejection.

The innkeep was too terrified to move when he barged in, a mess of blood and stench, and barked a threat. Just as well. He wasn't keen on hurting anyone, but the dust was his salvation, and he needed _more._ The ill-gotten gains would see him through until he could follow the advice on the note. What else could he do? The only way forward was back, but he didn't want anyone he knew to see him like this. Not again.

By sheer will, he began to climb out of hell. Spots of clarity awoke in his mind, and with them came the memory of why he had left. All the strength and talent given to him was for naught. He resented his fate, and his maker, and himself. He spent so much time perfecting his resentment that when it came to risking his comfortable self-pity, one misstep sent him spiralling down. Every time, someone was there for him—until now. This time, they'd had enough.

Shivers, then sweat. The last year replayed itself over and over in his mind's eye—he could confront it, or let hell have him. Time was immaterial. His world was pain, and guilt was his hope. And then…

Clarity.

He had never been so exhausted, so weak, so trampled upon, but he could think without his brain _hurting._ Opening his eyes felt like lifting boulders. A breath of relief escaped him. He met the eyes staring at him from across the room.

"Hello, Remus."

~~oOo~~

They didn't let him rest. Throughout the two following days, a procession of strangers entered the room at odd hours. Sirius poked his head in a few times. Remus took advantage of the times in between visits to sleep through the ordeal. He refused any potion that would dull thought in trade for relief, and his caretakers didn't protest. Shivers still came periodically, and Remus would shake under the sheets, teeth clenched, cursing himself.

By the second evening, he felt steady enough on his feet take a bath. He emerged still weak, but awake. A change of clothes had been left out for him, along with his wand. The warm wood felt worryingly dormant in his hand, but the wand performed without fault when he Unlocked the window. He leaned over the sill, expecting to see London—instead he looked out at an expansive park.

There was a knock on the door.

"Enter," Remus said, though discreetly palming his wand.

"You look miles better." Sirius strode in, hands in pockets. His voice carried disappointment.

"What is this place?"

"You are being hosted by the illustrious Sturgis Podmore. Matter of fact, he's inviting you to dinner."

A pained thirst spasmed through Remus. The withdrawal was far from complete. He knew the symptom. He had made the mistake of tasting parthdust twenty years ago, and since then, it had been a constant yearning. One sniff was too much, and ten was not enough. He curled his fingers around the edge of the door—the wood cracked and split.

"Sirius…"

"I am not interested in apologies," Sirius cut him off. "I've heard it all before."

"Thank you. That's all I wanted to say."

Not even a quake of the lips, or a blink. Nothing to show that he was forgiven, after all. He would call it a betrayal, except it was nothing more or less than he deserved. He had been asked to do one job, a task he was uniquely suited to, but he fell prey to his own vices.

Remus followed Sirius out of the room and through the mansion, of the like that put the House of Black to shame. It was grand in every dimension, rich, but not opulent. Remus didn't know what to make of it. Sturgis had always seemed rather pragmatic, not taken by luxuries.

Up an unknown number of floors, they exited an elevator into a cozy parlor. A table was set for two, and Sturgis Podmore stood at the gallery overlooking a glass-walled solarium. It was a mesmerizing sight, a riot of light and colour. The purples and blues of glowing flowers, the greens and yellows of a fountain that spat jets of water near up to the ceiling, the pale white of glowbeetles.

Something huge disturbed the small jungle down below. A pair of jaws as large as a thunderbird snapped around a group of beetles perched on a palm leaf.

"That's just my occamy," Sturgis said, dismissing the creature with a gesture. "I'm having it trained as a guardian. Take a seat."

"Sirius, what is—"

Sirius was gone.

"Please. You must be famished."

It would be a lie to say Remus didn't enjoy the steak, so rare that it was damn near raw. Like most werewolves, he abhorred overcooked meat. Days of sickness kindled a hunger that only subsided once they were done with dessert.

"It seems you're on a good track to recovery, if your appetite is any indication."

"I don't want to seem ungrateful, but what am I doing here?"

"Right to business. Just as well." Sturgis leaned back, hands resting on his stomach. "Sirius, unfortunately, could not delay his return any further. Don't take this for a slight. He checked in on you several times a day. As to why you're here and not in England… Sirius wishes me to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that you won't find a warm welcome back home."

Remus stilled. This went quite a bit further than a falling out between friends.

"Oh, you're not barred from the country, nothing so final," Sturgis hurried to explain. "But… Sirius no longer trusts you to be part of his schemes—at least until it's assured that you've got a grip on yourself again."

A bright blue eye the size of a saucer peeked over the railing. Sturgis tapped his plate and a fresh steaming steak appeared. He speared the meat on a fork and tossed it over the gallery. The occamy raced after it, quicker than even Remus' eyes could follow.

"However," Sturgis continued, "we have agreed that there is a venture in which you could be useful, if that's your wish. You're quite welcome to stay here, otherwise."

"Here being where, precisely?"

"You'll forgive me if I don't divulge the secret. It's been a lot of effort and gold to put it all together, and I'd like to keep it peaceful. Don't take this for an insult. I didn't tell Sirius either."

He almost said yes without thinking— _of course_ he wanted to do something. He'd be bored out of his mind lounging in a palace. Sirius didn't trust him—bah, he hardly trusted himself. It would be a long journey, but he had to make it. But he paused before answering. He went after Greyback alone. It would've been one thing if he'd made a mess of it, or if Greyback had beaten him. He veered off course well before he ever caught up to his target.

"Best intentions…" he said, turning away from Sturgis, now tempted to accept the invitation to stay. Sirius would likely never trust him again, but was it a crime to hang up the cloak, put away the wand, and rest? He had sacrificed enough. Only guilt would nag him to act, and guilt he could smother.

"I think I understand your apprehension," Sturgis said. "You wouldn't be going by yourself. I have secured an appropriate companion for you. Frankly, he's going anyway. This job isn't optional."

"What's the job?" No harm in asking, was there?

"I consider Voldemort to be chiefly other people's problem, but I'm not entirely divorced from this war. The Dark Lord's influence reaches even into my domains, so I'll do my part." Sturgis stood and returned to the gallery, his back to Remus. "I am constructing a weapon that should make victory much less costly for all of us. It is nearly complete, but requires a power source—it is useless without it."

"What kind of weapon?"

Sturgis turned and they shared a look. "I'm afraid that this, too, is a secret known to select few: only myself and Sirius have the full picture, though I expect he will inform Harry. This is not something we can allow to be leaked to Voldemort, by any means. I apologise for my bluntness, but while you are trusted to participate, this task, should you choose to accept it, will also be your rehabilitation."

Protest leapt to his lips, but Remus swallowed the words. "You're not making it easy to trust _you,_ Sturgis."

Sturgis leaned against the railing and crossed his legs at the ankle. "I'll make it even harder before this conversation is over."

"It wouldn't be like you otherwise," Remus said and hung his lead for a moment. "All right. Give me the details."

"Sirius has agreed to entrust oversight of this enterprise to me. You would go east—far east. The power source I need is a flooheart."

"A flooheart," Remus repeated. "You never see those outside—"

"Vampire country. Yes." Sturgis shrugged.

"Well, it's been done before…"

"You'll have the entire trip there to figure it out. I'm certain two experienced Hit-wizards can outsmart the undead."

Remus already found himself digging through his memory for relevant trivia. "Don't keep me in suspense, Sturgis. Who will I be travelling with?"

"Before I tell you, I want you to know that his cooperation is assured beyond all doubt." Sturgis rolled up a sleeve, pointing to a net of thin scars pressed into his skin. "He made me a promise, and he's not looking to die soon."

"Merlin's sagging balls, you're working up to it like to fucking a gorgon."

Remus turned slowly to look at the new arrival. His to-be companion leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

Across the room, Sturgis sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I wanted to break it gently."

"He's one of Greyback's. They like it rough."

"Say that again when you're in arm's reach," Remus said, rising from his seat. All else aside, he felt fit enough to snap the Death Eater in two.

Sturgis dropped the pretense. "You can learn to get along, or I can find someone else to do the job. It will cost me time, however, and spending time twice makes me _unpleasant."_

Mulciber glared. "What, you're gonna put me in detention? Don't twist yourself, Sturgis, I'll do my part."

Sturgis gave Remus a pointed look.

"If that's what it takes, I'll make it work."

"Good." Sturgis relaxed his pose. "You leave tomorrow."

~~oOo~~

What to do indeed.

The House of Black had been Harry's first thought when he apparated away from the ambush, but the House of Black was no longer a refuge for him. The door refused to budge. More irritated than surprised, he rattled the doorknob. Nothing. Grimmauld Place Twelve loomed dispassionate, entirely disinterested in Harry's circumstances. Behind him, Blaise Zabini stifled a snort.

In hindsight, he overreacted.

Once he extracted Zabini from the fence and repaired the man-sized hole, he Stunned his prisoner and paused to think. He couldn't return to his flat—hell, he should stay away from the area. Wonder if Aurors got there in time, or had the Death Eaters escaped? No, no, a matter for another time.

A glance at his watch. It hadn't even been five minutes. Think, think!

Harry's eyes widened as an idea dawned on him. He grabbed a handful of Zabini's collar and dragged him along, unconscious, in a series of lightning-quick apparitions, barely blinking into existence in one place before twisting into the next leap. He stood—Zabini lay sprawled—in the small cove from which new students took the boat ride to Hogwarts. The boats were here, pulled up onto a pebble-strewn beach.

Harry snapped his fingers and Zabini jolted awake. He fell to all fours, heaving, then vomited profusely.

"That's mildly disgusting," Harry said, gently banishing one of the boats out onto the lake. "Get in."

"Fuck you," Zabini barked and spat out another mouthful.

 _"_ _Wingardium Leviosa,"_ Harry intoned, colouring the spell with a vicious edge. Zabini was yanked into the air with the acceleration of a racing broom and then crashed into the boat from twenty feet. Harry climbed in, tapped the wood, and the boat shot smoothly across still, dark water. Zabini remained where he'd landed, silent, though his expression spoke of pain.

Harry dipped his fingers into the water. His thoughts raced a mile a minute, but he observed Zabini with sharp attention. They were near the middle of the lake when Harry felt a tell-tale swirl pulling his hand. He tapped the lip of the boat and, once stopped, stood up and hoisted Zabini up to his knees, then threw him overboard. Ten seconds, a whispered command in Parseltongue, and Harry jumped in as well.

~~oOo~~

While Blaise Zabini clawed for consciousness—through his own effort this time—Harry set the scene. He dimmed the torches to bathe the Chamber of Secrets in near-impenetrable darkness. A tripod brazier at the edge of the pond cast light barely a few feet around. Harry put a chair for himself opposite Zabini's and waited.

Blaise moaned and opened his eyes. He blinked rapidly, almost burned his hand in the brazier, sat up straighter. A hand absently patted his robes. Harry pulled back his coat and slowly, deliberately, tossed Zabini's wand and bone-white mask on the floor between them. Zabini slumped his shoulders in defeat. Harry said nothing. He knew where he wanted to steer the conversation. There was no rush.

"What is this place?"

Harry tilted his head.

Zabini closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then another, grimacing as his body woke up and remembered what he'd been subjected to in the last hour. "I suppose you want to know how we found you."

"Found me?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "Did it look like I was hiding?" Before Zabini had a chance to speak, Harry continued. "I know how you _found_ me. You were at the Cauldron for drinks and you heard a drunk wizard bragging that he was hosting Harry Potter. How close am I?"

Now, Zabini had nothing to say. Harry gave a fleeting cold smile. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."

The only sound came from the quiet crackling of the brazier. Harry saw a flicker of desperation in Zabini's eyes and pounced. "Why, Blaise? Why this?" He pointed at the mask. "You have the Mark, I checked. What possible benefit is there to going with Voldemort?"

"It's not that simple."

"We've got time."

Zabini pressed his lips into a thin line. Harry almost felt like he was _seeing_ emotions on his face—he hadn't studied Legilimency, but his connection to Voldemort doubtlessly lended him the Dark Lord's natural talents. Zabini was fighting the human instinct to unburden oneself of secrets. Perhap he had orders to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps he was just scared. Both, most likely.

Harry sighed. "All right." He stood and gave his chair a tap with his wand, transfiguring it into a table. Blaise's wand and mask floated up onto it. As he worked, he whispered a command in Parseltongue: _come to me._

A blob of water separated from the pond. Harry suspended it above the table, and then plucked a spoonful from the sphere, which he transfigured into a white mouse, the kind commonly used in McGonagall's classes. The rodent sniffed curiously around Harry's palm.

 _"_ _Promissus dolor."_

Blaise jumped in his chair as if poked as the spell took hold. Harry plunged the mouse into the sphere of water and smiled grimly, seeing the immediate effect.

The mouse swam around, disoriented by the lack of feedback from the world and the non-standard body of water. Harry drew a circle in the air with his finger and the water-blob began rotating, faster and faster, the mouse with it.

Blaise fell from his chair, dizzy from the ride and choking. The mouse drowned quickly and with its death, the spell broke. Blaise went into a coughing fit, but there was no water for him to expel. Harry didn't let him rest.

Slaves to his command, the snakes had arrived. A living, moving, wriggling carpet slithered out of the pond, encircling Harry and Blaise. Two separated from the others and climbed the table. One was a small garden snake, the other a large viper. Harry recast his spell, this time linking Blaise with the viper, and commanded it to swallow the other snake whole.

Zabini's eyes and mouth opened wide—it was almost funny. His expression spoke volumes. Pain, disgust, fear, sheer mad panic…

Harry drew a finger down the viper's back, splitting it open. Zabini writhed in agony. He finally found his voice again and the screams boomed through the Chamber like the sounds of hell.

The garden snake, still alive inside the dead viper, curled into a spiral on the table. For the third time, Harry linked Zabini with an animal.

 _"_ _Avada Kedavra."_

Zabini wailed like a wounded banshee, but it soon quieted down to small gasps and the thousand-yard stare of a man who had just seen the abyss stare back.

"Please…" Blaise whispered. "Stop. Please."

"Are you ready to talk, then? Unless you'd rather I keep killing snakes."

"No." Blaise was on all fours, shaking. "I'll do whatever you want. Just… don't do it again."

Harry sent the snakes away, turned the table back into a chair, and helped Zabini up onto his own.

"Are you—are you going to kill me?" Blaise asked.

"Only if you give me a reason to," Harry said. "You remember Malfoy? I killed his mother in front of him. I can do the same for you."

Blaise snapped up—his eyes were pure, undiluted fear.

"So that's what this is about," Harry said. _"_ _Your mother."_

Blaise slumped forward, hiding his face in his hands. "I can't. He'll kill me. He'll kill us both. I can't tell you."

Harry relaxed and sat back, hands in his lap, one leg crossed over the other. "I see. Yes, Voldemort does have a way with truth. Extracting it—whether you tell willingly or not." At his gesture, the brazier's fire was snuffed out and the torches flared to life again. The Chamber could never be described at 'brightly lit', but the oppressive darkness was gone, the dimensions of the room now clearly visible. Blaise, as if sensing something had changed, looked up. Even in his tortured state, he was capable of awe.

"You asked before what this place was." Harry spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Behold... the Chamber of Secrets."

"What… This is where you brought me?" Blaise seemed to grow, gathering himself to give a look of defiance. "And you use it as your torture room?"

"This isn't the time for House pride. There's one person who has more of a right to be here than me, and you're not him."

"You are beneath this place, Potter," Blaise spat.

Harry felt exasperation building. "Have you forgotten the last five minutes?"

"I love my mother," said Blaise. "But that's far from the only reason I took the Dark Mark."

Three more dead animals later, Blaise appeared well and truly broken. Harry crouched over him. "You seem to think you have a choice here. Well then, here's your choice: you turn spy for me, or you can depart this world for you next great adventure. Keep in mind that the second option has your mother living out her days in Azkaban."

"If I say nothing to you, you'll kill me. If I do, the Dark Lord will," said Blaise, staring aimlessly into space. "So end it."

"There are ways to keep secrets," Harry said. "Even from Voldemort."

"No, there aren't. Not from him."

Harry stood up. "We are in the Chamber of _Secrets,_ Zabini. This seems a bit elaborate for a snake pit, doesn't it? There's old magic here, knowledge that Salazar Slytherin poured into these stones, knowledge that makes Voldemort so adept at finding liars. But there's magic even the Dark Lord can't overcome. Secrets shared within these walls remain secret, and neither Legilimency not Veritaserum nor anything else can draw them out."

After a long silence, Blaise met Harry's eyes. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"I guess you'll just have to trust me," Harry said. "What will it be: me, or Voldemort?"

Harry grew impatient. Seconds stretched unbearably, and he was about to go and leave Zabini to stew for a few days with only snakes for company, when he spoke again.

"Fine. You win. But I want something too."

~~oOo~~

"Ever been at Brody's?"

Blaise nodded.

"Meet me there tomorrow. Eight o'clock. If you try to ambush me again, I'll do to your mother what I did to you." With this last threat, Harry disapparated from the Shrieking Shack. Minutes later, he was in London, dialing six-two-four-four-two at the visitors' entrance to the Ministry. The crowd was thinning out as the evening drew near, but it was still busy enough that Harry noticed people stepping out of his way.

 _Oh dear. Have I become intimidating?_

Dumbledore would be disappointed.

He made his way through the Atrium unobstructed, hiding a smile when a witch and wizard vacated the lift he stepped into, leaving him to ride down alone. He summoned as neutral an expression as he could manage at the moment and strode into the Auror department.

He cut across the room straight to Kingsley's office, drawing the eyes of rookies and veterans alike. He wasn't officially affiliated with the Silver Order, so he wasn't banned from the Ministry like Sirius, but more than a few of the looks suggested he should get the hell out.

The Head Auror's door opened before Harry even approached it.

"Mr. Potter," Kingsley's deep voice boomed from inside. "I was just about to send you an owl."

The door closed behind Harry when he was across the threshold.

"Were you really?"

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Was I really what?"

"About to owl me."

"No. I did that hours ago. The letter was returned unopened. Apparently the owl couldn't find you. I was told it circled Hogwarts for a while and eventually gave up."

The words and telling look were a clear signal. Kingsley didn't know everything, but he knew enough to guess where Harry might have been. Perhaps even why he was there.

"How many Death Eaters attacked you?"

 _Oh, he knows._

"No pretending, then."

"Not with you," Kingsley said. "I find playing games with you and Sirius to be a waste of time. I know I can't force you to do things the right way. I'll settle for being in the loop, as much as you're willing to include me."

"You almost sound like Dumbledore."

"How many Death Eater, Harry?"

Harry leaned against the wall. "How many did you bring in?"

"Three. No notable names. I doubt you know them."

"Still," Harry crossed his arms. "I'd like to speak to them. They might know something."

"We both know they don't," Kingsley said, his tone harsher this time. "Whoever was there who knew anything is in your extra-legal custody."

Weighing his options, Harry relented. He couldn't follow Blaise all the time. Perhaps he could spin this into cooperation. "I have Blaise Zabini."

Kingsley rubbed his eyes. "Merlin's staff, Voldemort knows no boundaries. Hasn't he learned from Draco Malfoy?"

Harry stifled a snort. "Funny. That's what I told Blaise."

"You think it's a laughing matter?" Kingsley sat up straight and the room seemed to darken around him. "I don't make light of turning kids into killers. I can't decide if you should be in Azkaban or not."

There was a spot of mud on his shoes. Harry looked at it intently. Kingsley really was like Dumbledore. Few people could make him feel scolded these days. "I received a pardon," he said—Kingsley knew that, he had been there—all the same, Harry felt the urge to justify himself.

"What do you want, Harry? You're here for something."

"A small favour."

"I'll decide if it's small."

"I need a pass to Azkaban. Just for a day."

There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for an invitation, someone poked their head in, but Kingsley slapped a palm on his desk and the door snapped shut, hitting the person outside in the face, if the loud yelp was any indication. Kingsley summoned a piece of parchment and scribbled a note.

"Just like that?"

"I'm surprised you're asking for permission at all. With that Cloak of yours…" Kingsley dripped some wax onto the note, stamped the Head Auror's seal and paused, quill hovering above the parchment. "Who do you want to see?"

"Keira Zabini, the Warden, and whichever Auror there is in charge of the Death Eater cell block." Seeing Kingsley's questioning expression, Harry added, "Something's brewing, and it has to do with Aurora Fawley."

"As I recall, you turned Aurora Fawley's brain into scrambled eggs, which is why the Wizengamot even heard the petition for her release."

"I've got a hunch."

Kingsley stopped him just as he turned to leave. "I don't expect anything from you. Sirius all but considers me an enemy… But ultimately, we have the same goal."

"No. Not really. Thanks for this," Harry held up Kingsley's note, "but there are more than two sides in this fight."

He had barely taken a few steps outside Kingsley's office when someone blocked his way.

"Afternoon, Potter."

"Auror Savage. Have you thwarted the nundu smugglers?"

Savage shrugged. "It was just a baby nundu. Not stopping you for that, though. You've been wanting to speak to the boss…"

Harry tensed up. "Sirius is back?"

"Indeed. Just left with new orders myself. Before you race off—he's not in a great mood."

"I don't care."

He hammered on the door relentlessly for a good minute before it finally opened. Sirius somehow looked angry and bored at the same time.

"Savage told me you might show up. Apparently you've been wanting to speak to me."

Harry pushed past Sirius and stared him down. He would not be dismissed like a child this time.

"I don't demand to know all of your secrets, Sirius, but this is about me, it's _my_ bloody life on the line." Harry unclasped the Cloak from his shoulders and went into the living room. Even though it was the height of summer, the roaring fireplace was warding off the perpetual chill that pervaded the House of Black. Sirius followed him into the room.

"It's been a long day—"

"It's about to get longer," Harry barked and pinned his godfather with an uncompromising stare. _"_ _Sit. Down."_

"All right," Sirius muttered, and sat. "What is it?"

Eyes closed, Harry breathed in and out, slowly. "You'll indulge me if I get long-winded. I've done my waiting."

To Harry's irritation, Sirius didn't press him to get started, or shift restlessly. They sat across from each other, by all indication perfectly content to be silent together. Harry pondered how to skin this beast.

"When Dumbledore taught me, he said that no single approach to magic is universal," he began, himself not yet sure where he was going with this train of thought. "He said that individual interpretation is the heart of wisdom. You have to find your own path in the labyrinth. Yeah, a labyrinth—a puzzle. Dumbledore likes puzzles."

"I can already tell this is going to be great." Sirius held out an open palm in the general direction of the kitchen. Two butterbeers came flying through the hall. Sirius popped a cap on one and tossed the other to Harry.

Harry bit back a retort. "For me, magic is like an infinite series of doors. You come upon a door, you have to find a key." He steeled his voice. That was it. "You go through the door, and there's another—you need a different key. Sometimes you'll get lucky and a key you've collected before opens another door, sometimes you don't even need the key, you can just pick the lock. That's magic. The point is, you're never done. There's always a next door."

Sirius seemed amused, of all the things to be. Harry's throat felt very dry right then. He downed half of the bottle in one go. It was all he could do not to start a duel in the living room, to wipe that patronising smile from Sirius' face. He grit his teeth.

"I think that people are a lot like that, too," Harry said, holding his bottle in a white-knuckle grip while his right hand itched for his wand. "But there's a difference. No matter how many magic doors you've opened, _you_ are _finite._ There's a _last_ door. People have an end. Voldemort has a last door. I thought I was getting close to it when Dumbledore told me about the prophecy, but I was a fool. Because Dumbledore likes puzzles. Because everyone keeps secrets, don't we?"

Sirius's smile faded, and Harry pounced.

"I'm the one carrying that fucking scar. Not Dumbledore. Not you. This secret isn't yours to hoard. _I want to know."_ Harry rose from his armchair and for the first time, he towered over Sirius. "What is a horcrux?"

Silence fell between them. Harry grew more impatient with every second.

"Sturgis told me you two talked."

Harry shook his head. "No. We're not going to do that. You'll tell it plainly, or I _will_ burn your house down and find Dumbledore if I have to."

"There isn't a plain way to tell it."

Harry went for his wand and Fiendfyre exploded in the room. There was an immediate resistance. Harry fought it for a moment, long enough to communicate his resolve, then ended the spell. When the fire cleared, Sirius was on his feet, wand arm down by his side.

"All right," Sirius said, raising a hand in defence. "You deserve to know. Let's sit."

"What is a horcrux?"

"Dark magic. Very old, forgotten, until it was rediscovered by Grindelwald."

"What's so special about it?"

"Immortality."

Something broke in the air and Harry's momentum evaporated. He swallowed. "I can see why it drew Voldemort's interest."

Sirius summoned a box from elsewhere in the house. One by one, he produced notes, objects, magical artefacts as he navigated Dumbledore's research.

Horcrux—a piece of one's soul, shorn off by Dark magic and the power of an unspeakable act. The piece to be placed in a container, the container to be protected. While the horcrux survives, its maker can't die.

"And Dumbledore thinks Voldemort made six of them?"

"Yes. Six horcruxes, a soul split seven ways."

"Seven. Of course," Harry said, rifling through the mess of the box's contents, now strewn across the coffee table. "So until all six are destroyed, I can't kill him."

"Ordinarily, yes." Sirius reached into the box again and handed Harry a familiar book. Or rather, a big hole with a bit of a book left around it.

"Basilisk venom really does a number on paper." He tried to pry it open, but the whole thing was firmly stuck together. "So, this was a piece of Voldemort's soul… That leaves five."

"The venom is apparently one of the few substances destructive enough to destroy a horcrux—or, more precisely, its container," Sirius said.

Harry tossed the old diary onto the pile. "I suppose you could make a horcrux out of anything, right? A book. A coin. Hell, make it out of a rock and toss it into the ocean."

"Voldemort doesn't think like that. That's Dumbledore's theory."

"We're relying on Voldemort's ego to theorise a strategy for defeating him?" Harry asked, somewhat incredulous.

"Dumbledore said he wasn't done looking. It's why he left. There were pieces of the puzzle missing."

Harry sat back, digesting what he'd just heard. Was there a treasure hunt in his future? If Voldemort had five horcruxes left, where could they be? How were they protected? The diary had been given to the Malfoys. Were the others guarded by Death Eaters as well? He looked up. Sirius was staring at him with apprehension. "There's more?"

"A horcrux doesn't _have_ to be placed in an object. As far as I—as far as Dumbledore knows, Grindelwald… reinterpreted the creation formula. An object can be imbued with enchantments that make the container near indestructible, but it's far from a perfect defence. Grindelwald came up with the idea of a living horcrux."

"Living," Harry said flatly. "Like what. A fern?"

"Like an animal," Sirius corrected. "Or a person."

While Sirius talked, an annoying little sound had been steadily growing at the back of Harry's mind. He realised it wasn't a sound at all, but rather some nagging thought that hadn't yet fully formed, as if Harry were standing with his back to a wall, and someone was chipping away at the brick from the other side. As the wall weakened, a quiet dread rose behind it. The non-sound of deafening silence. Someone screaming with no mouth.

 _A person._

The wall fell and the epiphany busted through. Harry felt like screaming now. He let out a breath, mouth hanging open. An eternity passed, and only then he spoke.

"Me. I'm a horcrux." His eyes darted towards the kitchen. He needed a knife. Maybe he could cut the fucking thing from his forehead. "What happened when Voldemort tried to kill me?"

"Dumbledore said—"

"Yes, Dumbledore said," Harry snapped. "I know Dumbledore said it, you're just the messenger. Dumbledore said what?"

"Lily invoked powerful magic with her death. When Voldemort tried to kill you, your mother's protection and the Killing Curse negated each other and the curse was reversed. But Voldemort couldn't die, so a piece of his soul latched onto the only living thing it found."

"Which was me," Harry said, feeling empty as the sense of it dawned on him. "I have to die before Voldemort can be killed."

 _"_ _You're not dying,"_ Sirius said. "Grindelwald invented something else. A device that traps souls. Soulcatcher. Merlin, what a stupid name…"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Grindelwald—"

"No, I got that part."

"This... thing, this soulcatcher, works like a horcrux container, I guess, I'm not exactly fluent in the details. Yes, you'd have to die before Voldemort could. But there's another way. We can use the soulcatcher to trap Voldemort's soul—he'll be as good as dead. Sturgis is building it. Remus is helping him. And Harry—you're not alone."

They settled in with Ogden's this time instead of beer. Harry couldn't tell if his hand shaking was because of alcohol. He half-listened as Sirius wound the tale of the curious locket he'd found among his late brother's possessions. Voldemort must have given it to Regulus Black for safekeeping, like Malfoy had been charged with guarding the diary. The locket was a patient predator, but Sirius gave his damnedest to keep his own mind and drained the locket instead.

"You _absorbed it?"_

"Best I can tell. S'what Dumbledore thinks."

"Bloody Dumbledore…" Harry muttered, nursing his fourth glass. Kreacher popped in with a crack to deliver Sirius a new bottle of Firewhiskey and vanished again. "Where's it now?"

"I had to leave it behind in Mulciber Manor. I reckon it was destroyed when you burned the Bone Mound with Fiendfyre."

Harry remembered something. The day of the battle at Nurmengard, something had provoked Voldemort, something he'd found. Harry didn't understand it then.

 _—_ _steps, slow, measured, boots on porous stone—a cell, a cot inside, a pot and—brick chipped away, cracked, hidden in dark, but not from his eyes—fingers scrape at the mortar, it breaks—_

The locket.

"No. He found it." The memory sobered him up. "You hid it behind a broken brick in your cell. He found the locket, but the horcrux was gone. Grindelwald taught him about horcruxes. He went to Nurmengard to kill him, so Grindelwald couldn't spill the secret."

In the corner of his vision Harry noticed Sirius looking at him wide-eyed, with equal parts fear and fascination, but his thoughts were galloping elsewhere.

 _—_ _images, memories fly past his vision, blurry, can't make them out, but he knows what he's looking for now—house, old—street, ugly building, children—hate them—it tastes of salt—_

"He hid horcruxes in places of power… He sent Death Eaters to check on them." Harry blinked and snapped out of the trance. "He wanted the remaining horcruxes brought to him. He sent Mulciber for one of them."

Sirius' eyes glinted knowingly, and Harry knew he remembered too.

"Mulciber came out of that ruin with a metal case," Sirius said. "I gave it to Dumbledore."

Excitement rose in Harry, overpowering everything else. "Did you ever find out what was in it?"

"No. But it gives us something to start with. We can't rely on Dumbledore." Sirius stood, though swaying slightly. "We hightailed it out of there right quick. We might have missed something."

"Do you even know where to go? We were following a compass when we got there."

Sirius smiled. "Now that you mention it…" He raised his wand. With a poof, something materialised above his open palm. He held it up in front of his face. A fake coin on a chain—the receptacle they'd used to track down Peter Pettigrew.

"Will it even still work?" Harry asked, regarding the coin sceptically. "Since Pettigrew's dead, I mean."

"But we don't need it for that. We just need it to remember where it led us."

Sirius held the receptacle out for him. Harry grasped the chain and apparated.


	8. CHAPTER TWO: Dying of the Light, Part 2

**CHAPTER TWO: Dying of the Light**

 **Part 2**

They arrived in the same spot Harry vaguely remembered from two years ago. This time they weren't in pursuit and half of Sirius' attention needn't be spent on protecting Harry, so they stayed where they stood, quietly taking in their surroundings. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about the forest around them. At the second, Harry was noticing plenty of what they'd missed on their first visit.

"There," he said, stepping off the footpath. "What is that?"

Harry led the way, Sirius following. Several yards into the forest stood what appeared to be a pile of flat stones, meticulously stacked on top of each other, though now overgrown with moss. On closer inspection, they determined it to be a former fencepost. Harry identified a weak trace of long-defunct enchantments.

"This used to denote a border."

"That doesn't tell us much," Sirius said. "Even the Burrow has enchanted borders, as do most wizarding homes."

"How about this?"

The ground here sloped gently upwards, towards a thinner patch of trees. Vegetation was lesser here, trees younger and shorter, more bare soil was exposed. A trench, as wide across as a stride, ended at another pile of stones.

"Old foundations," Harry said, crouching. He laid a hand on the ground and closed his eyes. He looked around, seeing not through light but magic, the trick Dumbledore had taught him. He hadn't had a need for it in a long time.

Beneath his feet a faint line ran in the foundations. More lines appeared as he looked out further, often crossing each other. He was indeed looking at old foundations—the building that used to stand here would have been more similar to Malfoy Manor than the Burrow.

Harry blinked and wiped the wet soil from his hand. "Follow me."

As it turned out, they cut through the forest straight to the old ruined shack where they had met Mulciber and Pettigrew, only now Harry identified the shack as part of a much larger building.

Sirius nodded in agreement. "You're onto something here. This used to be an old pureblood estate. Look." He approached the shack with his wand out. He tapped the wall and several stones flashed brightly. Harry saw now that they were distinctly darker and formed a deliberate symbol.

"It's a Hellenic numerical rune," Sirius said. "Twenty-eight. As in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. After Cantankerous Nott published his book, it was fashionable for a time for the named families to display the number on their homes. If Dumbledore's speculation is correct…" They shared a dark look. "And, to be fair, I've never known him to speculate badly, and Mulciber was really retrieving a horcrux from here, this would be the third found in a pureblood home."

"So, who could have lived here?"

"Nothing really comes to mind." Sirius frowned. "I know the twenty-eight names by heart, and none of those who sympathized with Voldemort stand out as impoverished to the point of living in a place like this…" He trailed off.

"Sirius?"

"It's unconfirmed, but there's a… a quiet consensus, I suppose, about Voldemort's ancestry. The Gaunts were the only known descendants of Slytherin, and they had fallen on hard times, largely of their own making. They got into the habit of marrying brother to sister to keep the line pure. The last of them were still alive around the time Tom Riddle would have been born."

Harry retreated from the pitiful ruin before them to see it all in one picture. "The little I can tell is that Voldemort hid his horcruxes in powerful, important places. What's powerful about this? The foundations in the forest have been a ruin since long before Voldemort."

"Don't dismiss it so quickly," Sirius said. "Magic is the ultimate power. It's so powerful that it gives form to the intangible, to _ideas._ If we're right, then this place signifies Voldemort's bloodline, his connection to Salazar Slytherin. There's power in that." He raised his wand, his movements exaggerated as he imbued the ground beneath the shack with a Trembling Hex. The spell spread and rapidly built into a small earthquake, tearing a yard-deep ravine in the earth, yet the shack stood firm. "Even now, this power lingers here."

Harry nodded and approached the door, now mindful of what Sirius had demonstrated. He was older, wiser, and more knowledgeable than he was two years ago, but he was still only seventeen. There was so much he didn't know. So much he never would. He was increasingly coming to terms with the idea that the most unimpressive wizard likely had insights that no one else could comprehend. Everyone took a different path through the maze of doors. Not even Dumbledore had opened all of them.

The shack wasn't spelled to rebuff intruders. Inside, they found the image of extreme poverty holding onto bits of former wealth. The interior was just one large room. When the estate was whole, this might have been a quaint lounge for the masters of the manor. An immense fireplace dominated one of the walls. Sofas and armchairs were old, worn, and eaten by vermin, but they retained the ghost of luxury. Several beds were crammed together in a corner, another was occupied by a kitchen assembly, clearly out of place. There was no bathroom.

In the middle of the room floorboards and the stone and earth beneath them had been blasted apart. A sturdy chest was next to the hole, smeared in black soil. Inside the chest, more soil and a nest of every kind of repulsive, crawling, bug-like thing Harry could imagine. He noticed mundane insects as well as magical creatures. A bloated flobberworm rested among them like a king, lazily snatching smaller bugs.

"Yummy," Sirius said, keeping a safe distance. Harry turned away, gagging. Even years in Snape's class hadn't prepared him for this. He sobered immediately when he felt something crawling up his leg.

The centipede was thicker than a finger, as long as his wand, and clad in striking colours that could only mean it was venomous. He jabbed his wand at it and the creature was instantly incinerated. Bleh.

"We'd best get out of here, I don't want to become those things' next meal," Harry said.

They left the shack behind and returned to the forest path. The late summer afternoon was giving way to an atmospheric dusk. Coming from the opposite direction, they now noticed lights flickering through the trees. A very particular kind of lights. They moved through the trees quickly and soon disappeared.

"That's… a car." Harry quickened his pace. "Where the hell are we, exactly?"

The forest and the path ended rather abruptly, corralled by a muggle road. They saw a shallow valley and a sign: Little Hangleton. A large house on a naked hill overlooked the village.

"Muggle town, yes?" Sirius asked. "They must have moved in after the wizards."

"There's something familiar…"

Harry apparated to the edge of town and walked up to the first person in sight. An elderly woman was aggressively attacking her mailbox with a wire brush.

"Rusted through… bloody thing…"

"Excuse me ma'am, how do I get to the cemetery?"

She spun around, pushing up glasses that had slipped to the tip of her nose. "Pardon?"

"The town cemetery. I'd like to visit someone there."

She pointed down the street, where a large sign displayed directions, then resumed her assault on the mailbox.

"Harry, what the hell are we doing in a graveyard?"

Magic always leaves traces, Dumbledore had told him. The trace here was still brimming with Dark magic.

"It happened here," Harry said, pointing out the tomb of Tom Riddle the younger, still broken. "And that's where the cauldron was." The ground was still dented in. "This is where Voldemort was reborn. The house on the hill—that's Riddle house. That's where Voldemort murdered his father and his grandparents."

Neither knew how to follow on from that, so they were silent together for a moment.

"I've come to a decision," Harry said after a while. "I've got to stop being mediocre." A hand fell gently on his shoulder.

"I'm glad to hear it," Sirius said.

"You might like it less in a minute." Harry walked across the small clearing. He thought it was appropriate, putting a little distance between them. "I'm not always going to agree with you. I'm going to to do things my way. And when we disagree, I won't let you railroad me into submission."

Hands in pockets, Sirius tilted his head looking at him. "I gather this is a preamble to something that'll royally screw with my plans."

"I won't go out of my way to antagonise you, Sirius, but we both know we're not as close as we used to be."

"All right." Sirius leaned on a nearby gravestone. "I'm listening."

"This morning, I was attacked by four Death Eaters."

 _"_ _What?"_

Dusk darkened into evening as Harry unhurriedly spoke about his day. Sirius, to his credit, did not interrupt once—not even when Harry revealed he had gone to see Kingsley.

"Well… You have been busy. What's your plan for Zabini?"

"Something's brewing at Rugberry Creek. I wasn't gentle with Aurora Fawley, although not intentionally. Point is, she was catatonic when I was done with her. I talked to a few Mind Healers and all assured me that a case like this, this miraculous recovery, is extremely unlikely with proper therapy. She was in Azkaban."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Perhaps. I intend to find out what _has_ happened. To which end, I need you to pull whoever you still have watching that place. I saw Savage. He told me about Tonks. Said you didn't send her there. Reign her in."

A flicker of discontent flashed in Sirius' eyes. Harry waited until Sirius gave a nod to continue. "Also, since my flat is not an option… I'd appreciate having a place to stay until September."

"Oh, is that all?"

"For the moment, sure."

Another, longer silence fell between them, but there was something else in the air. Contentment? Trust? It was strange, coming to an understanding in this place. His life changed drastically and forever that night when Voldemort emerged from the cauldron. Now he was back here. Did that symbolise something? Going in circles? He hoped not. Or perhaps it meant nothing at all.

"I don't know if you recall, I told you once that you're the best of us. Maybe best means something else now, something different than I imagined. But I haven't changed my mind about you." Sirius stood up and half-turned as he took a step forward. "I'll see you at home."

Alone among the dead, Harry remained in the cemetery, with only his thoughts for company. Soon, Little Hangleton became the only source of light and a mist rose between graves. On a whim, Harry waved his wand at Tom Riddle's ruined tombstone. Voldemort wanted to rid himself of his past. Harry drew strength from his. If the whole world forgot about James and Lily, Cedric Diggory, Ron and Ginny, he would remember.

"Oh well. Busy day tomorrow."

~~oOo~~

In a storm, the three faces of Azkaban seemed to sprout directly from the North Sea. Harry disembarked the boat, carefully taking each of the hundred paces between him and the front door. He wondered if Kingsley had overlooked giving him permission to use the Auror access Floo on purpose.

The gate opened before he raised a fist to knock. A bearded Auror ushered him inside.

"A nice cup of tea? Does a wonder for the chill."

"No, thank you," said Harry, drying his shoes with a swish of the wand. The Cloak had kept the rest of him nice and warm. "You'd think it wouldn't be like this in the middle of summer."

The Auror offered his hand. "Friswald, Warden of Azkaban. I was told you'd be paying us a visit."

"Yes." Harry shook the man's hand and presented Kingsley's letter. "Here's the formality."

Friswald scanned it quickly, snickered and shoved it into a pocket. "I decide what goes and what doesn't in this place. Kingsley Shacklebolt can shove his protocol." Friswald pulled back the lapel of his cloak, revealing a small pin—a piece of obsidian nestled in a square of silver. "I wear it discreetly."

Harry gave a slight smile. "You know, Sirius hasn't officially invited me, I'm not sure you should be showing it to me."

"Little of what the Silver Order does is official." Friswald beckoned him to follow. "Shacklebolt hasn't been out here since shortly after my _promotion_. Figures now dementors are gone, guard duty requires minimum staff and resources, so he _gets_ the bare minimum."

Before Harry could respond, Friswald rushed to explain.

"Blast it, I do my job and bloody well at that. In truth, Shacklebolt's not all wrong. The fortress does a lot of the guarding for us. I've got less staff than my predecessor, but no rookies—a proper bunch of wands."

"The Dark Lord didn't seem to have much trouble last time," Harry observed.

"Last time, dementors were on his side, and Azkaban had something he wanted. Only Death Eaters here now are the riff raff he can replace with a few rallies."

They entered the Warden's office. The ward anchor, brimming with power, dominated one side of the room. Friswald sat down at the desk. "The true enemy here now is boredom. I've never _enjoyed_ standard daily procedure and paperwork before this posting. Well, boredom and…"

Harry sat in one of the empty chairs. "And what?"

"Just… the fortress itself. Not a pleasant place for a lengthy stay. Dementors are gone now, true, and we chase off the few that spawn, but they'd been here for centuries." Friswald kept his wand handy, rolling it between his fingers. "Dementors were a part of Azkaban like the ghosts are a part of Hogwarts. Can't just remove them and expect Azkaban to forget."

Harry felt a prick at the back of his neck, not unlike the feeling of realisation at being watched. A soothing coolness licked the skin of his hands. He had a faint recollection from two years ago, when this sensation felt like a suffocating sludge. The Dark Touch here coated the stone, the furniture, even the air was thick with it. Friswald stood out against that background like a gap in the natural order of the world. In Azkaban, the dark _was_ the natural order.

"You've been here ever since the breakout?" Harry asked.

Friswald nodded, a slight grimace on his face. "Right. Azkaban's Warden is appointed for one year, but the Marshall likes having eyes on the inmates. I told Shacklebolt I'd stay. He's not exactly tripping over experienced personnel, so he was delighted."

The dark, moody office was briefly illuminated when lightning struck over the ocean. The enormous gothic window almost had the room looking like Hogwarts. Only glass separated them from the storm, but the office was quiet as a grave.

"Well, then. Will I be escorted, or…"

Friswald withdrew a spherical compass from a desk drawer and tossed it to Harry. "I understand you'd like to visit several of our tenants. Speak the name and follow directions. When you're done, tell it to lead you back here. Take your time. I've got a fascinating weekly report for the Head Auror to look forward to."

The compass—a needle set within two freely spinning rings—didn't just point in the fixed direction of the target, but led Harry to the particular hallways and staircases he needed to traverse. He could make out the locator spell by mere touch, so expertly cast it seemed to weave around the rings like an immaterial string, pulling the needle where it needed to be.

Coming upon an elevator, he noticed a concave spot in the wall. He pressed the compass into it and the elevator moved without further command, depositing him at one of the higher floors. He wondered just how many cells there were in Azkaban, and how many were occupied.

He came upon an Auror sentry, who reluctantly left the small alcove that served as his guardpost. A small fire crackled gently in a slot in the wall, there was a table and a chair to eat lunch at, but other than that, the tiny office was as barren as most of Azkaban.

"Harry Potter. You're the most interesting visitor we've had in weeks. Actually, you're the only visitor we've had in weeks. Not much foot traffic in this damnable place." The Auror shivered, despite his enchanted cloak and gloves.

There was a sliver of the Dark Touch on him, but it wasn't coming from within. It clung to him outside, like a shroud of disease, or a parasite. Harry noticed how he stood with hunched shoulders, his eyes fluttered nervously, dark bags under them. Even his skin seemed to have a hint of ashen paleness.

"Hello," Harry said. "Do you get out of here much?"

"Nah. Six-month assignment. Fortunately, mine's done in eleven days. Merlin, I can't wait to bust potion smugglers on the coast again."

 _Good for you,_ Harry thought. Azkaban had clearly not lost much of its gloom, even with dementors gone.

"Anyway. Got word from the Warden. Who are you here to see?"

Harry consulted his watch. The trip out here had taken more time than he'd anticipated, and likely would take about as much time to get back. "Just two. Keira Zabini… and Draco Malfoy."

The mention of Malfoy's name perked the Auror up. "I read about the raid on Malfoy Manor last year, though who can trust the Prophet anymore… Seems like a proper battle."

"It was. Malfoys didn't come quietly."

The Auror tilted his head. "Goblins, though?" His tone was disapproving. "I'm not one to care much for politics, but that was rightly mad."

Harry turned away from the Auror, facing the cell block. "So, which way to Keira Zabini?" The compass spun quickly and he followed the needle, the Auror following in silence, wand at the ready. Harry wondered if that was procedure for visiting prisoners, or a gesture towards him.

"Here we are," the Auror said once they crossed through a gate of cold iron, spell-resistant and heavy enough to stop a giant in its tracks. "Zabini is in cell nine, Malfoy in cell four. Not the prime crop of Death Eaters like after the war, but plenty nasty. I'll be out here by the gate, so you can chat with the prisoners in private."

 _I'll be watching the only exit_ was left unsaid. Not a fan of Sirius, then.

Inside, cells were arranged along the walls of an octagon, a large iron number above each door, each door a solid block of metal, save for a barred window, a narrow slot to pass food trays, and a plaque naming the occupant. Bits and pieces of rubble were strewn across the floor, a rat scurried away into a crack in the wall. The only element that didn't fit the depressing atmosphere was the noise.

Harry walked passed the cell of an Aloysius Ratchet, who was occupying himself by steadily banging on the door. Morinth Slyweave's boney arm shot out through the slot, then quickly retreated. Harry caught a glimpse of madly shining eyes through the gap before the slot was shut from the inside. He couldn't tell whether Morinth was a wizard or a witch. Someone was singing—a pleasing, harmonic voice, singing about a dark night and a monster.

Someone else was screaming.

Harry stopped, taken aback. If this is what Azkaban was like now, how was it when dementors used to roam these halls? Had there been more screaming, or more silence? This is where Hagrid had been sent on a mere suspicion. This is where Dolores Umbridge now resided, somewhere inside this fortress. Where Sirius had spent twelve years and survived.

Neither screaming nor singing nor banging was coming from cell nine. Harry breathed out in relief. He wasn't up to dealing with audible madness, not today. A circular indentation in the stone next to the door suggested that the compass was also a key to the cell. Weighing the device in his left hand, he knocked first.

"Mrs Zabini. Can you hear me?"

A shuffle of paper, the soft tap of steps on the stone floor—a gaunt face in the barred window. Keira Zabini had lost her much-gossiped-of lustre, but she looked tidy and sane enough, if worn out. Her eyes narrowed. "Harry Potter. That's a surprise."

"Step back, I'm coming in."

She backed away into darkness, and Harry unlocked the cell, eyes fixed on Keira Zabini's shadowed form resting up against the far wall as he closed the door behind him.

The bed was a slate of steel and a hard mattress. A table and chair in one corner, a showerhead and toilet in another, a lamp affixed to the high ceiling. Several books, some parchment and a quill occupied the table. Harry browsed them briefly, noticing that Keira flinched nervously when he tapped a book with his wand. Bloody hell, the cupboard under the stairs had been more luxurious than this.

"You haven't been here long," he said, "though I can't say I know how long it must have felt like for you."

"Long enough," Keira whispered. "Why are you here?"

"You supervised Voldemort's gold after the Malfoys no longer could."

"That? I've already told Sirius Black everything I knew. Don't you know?" She swayed slightly. "Are you not in his confidence?"

Harry felt his lip twitch. "I'm here to follow up. You see, if your answers now are off by a single detail… You don't want Sirius and I to think you've lied to us, no?" He let the silence hang off his last word. Keira seemed to shrink. She sat on the bed and pulled her legs up onto the mattress.

"Can you tell me… about my son? Please?"

Harry placed the chair in the middle of the room and sat, facing Keira. "Did he take the Dark Mark before or after you found yourself here?"

The surprise on her face seemed genuine enough, and a gentle of brush of Legilimency—what little knowledge of it he'd stolen from Voldemort—confirmed it.

"I had a frank chat with Blaise recently, and I'll give you the same warning I gave to him—step out of line, and you'll have a brush with death you can't imagine."

She hesitated.

"Blaise fought back, you know," Harry said, his tone quiet and calm."Shall I describe to you how I broke him? Shall I tell you what else I might do if either of you disobeys?"

Keira kneaded the skirt of her prison robe. "The Dark Lord will kill me."

Harry spat out a cold laugh. "He had reason enough to kill you before I came here. If he wins, yes, he'll kill you. If I win, you'll live out your days here, but you might see your son again. You have little left to lose—Voldemort will take even that."

She remained still for a moment, then nodded, her shoulders slacking.

"I thought about asking why you joined his side, but I suppose it doesn't matter. What did you do for him, exactly?"

"I funnelled gold from supporters into several accounts and then outside Britain. The Dark Lord was expanding his influence to the mainland."

Harry crossed one leg over the other, hands in his lap, wand casually pointed at Keira. "Where did the money go?"

"Sylvestre Malfoy. Goblins in Gringotts London were furious. They don't like wizards moving what they see as theirs outside their reach."

"What about the goblins in Gringotts Paris?"

"They were pleased enough to have more gold in their vaults."

"What then?" Harry asked impatiently. "The money didn't just lie around in the vault of another Malfoy, did it? Can't imagine Voldemort trusts their kind much after the English ones failed."

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to me," Harry barked. "Blaise is counting on you."

She swallowed, and her next words came out strained. "I'm not lying. Please… my son…"

He stood and crossed the cell in three steps. Keira flinched. "You know more." He leaned over her, palming the wand in a way that threatened violence. "The Dark Lord isn't the only one who can smell a lie."

She was still and silent as a statue for a moment, finally uttering, "Demetra Agrattsi."

"Agrattsi?" He'd heard that name before. "As in Elizer Agrattsi?"

"Must be," Keira said. "The Dark Lord recruited him, that's all I know. I wasn't privy to much, just enough to do my part."

"You must have met other Death Eaters, someone would've had to relay orders while Voldemort was recovering from his wounds. Who has he left in charge in Britain?"

"Two from the Inner Circle. I don't know who they are, few of us do."

Harry paced the cell, not taking his eyes off Keira, lest she try something stupid. Two of the Circle. There'd been enough left after the Bone Mound that it was useless trying to guess.

"I hope your memory is more or less intact." He pushed the chair back up to the small table. "I want to write down as many details as you remember. The accounts in London and Paris, how many times you met with the silver masks, how much gold left Britain, the name of every goblin you dealt with and every Ministry employee whose silence you bought."

Over the next hour, Harry stalked the small room, often peering over Keira's shoulder at her notes, tossing out any relevant questions that came to mind. How did the Inner Circle contact her? How did she secure Marcus Plateau's cooperation? Did she play a part in recruiting her son into Voldemort's ranks?

He cut her off abruptly as it neared five o'clock. He was to meet with Blaise in three hours and there was another prisoner he wanted to see.

"That'll be enough for now," Harry said, summoning the roll of parchment from under Keira's fingers. Reaching inside his robes, he produced a slightly crumpled envelope. "From your son." He snatched the letter away just as Keira reached for it. "A token of good faith. I will be _greatly_ disappointed if that faith turns out to have been misplaced."

He'd read it, of course. The letter was unspelled, and as far as he could tell, contained no cypher, but he didn't have an arithmancer on call to examine it. If Blaise was passing his mother a secret message, Azkaban would have to suffice to render it useless.

Harry stepped out of the cell. He brushed his hand across the door, identifying a knot in the spellwork—individual cells muted outside noise, probably to prevent prisoners communicating. In the time he'd spent with Keira Zabini, he'd forgotten about the sounds of madness that filled the cell block. Whoever had been singing before had stopped, but the screamer carried on, now much more hoarsely. Aloysius Ratchet was still thudding away at the slab of metal keeping him locked.

A rat scurried across his shoe and Harry flicked his foot in disgust. He approached cell four, listening for sounds that might give away what he was about to see, but he couldn't hear a thing over Alysius and his screaming neighbour. Suddenly aware of eyes on him, he turned to see the Auror guard glowering.

"How much longer?"

"No more than an hour," Harry said, wishing he'd reserved an entire day on Azkaban.

"By the way, I doubt you'll get much out of this one," the Auror said. "No one's heard a word out of him in weeks."

Harry pressed the compass-key into the lock.

The cell was furnished identically to Keira's, save for the books and writing implements. Instead, the table was strewn with an odd collection of prison art—figurines fashioned from string, wire, stone, and other bits of rubbish. A tattered prison cloak had been torn into strips and affixed to the wall in an imitation of the Dark Mark. Harry never would have taken Draco for a creative soul.

Presently, it was hard to believe there was a soul in Draco Malfoy at all.

Harry's once-nemesis was slumped on the bed, back resting against the wall, head lolled limply to one side, a thousand-yard stare seeing into some void beyond the cell.

"Hello, Draco."

Not even a twitch.

 _"_ _Malfoy."_

No reaction.

Harry stepped right in front of Draco, rapidly growing furious. "This had better not be an act." He lifted Malfoy's chin and backhanded him.

The blow almost threw Draco off the bed. Finally, he seemed to acknowledge his visitor. A ghost of awareness flickered in the grey eyes, but was gone in an instant.

Harry breathed out, frustrated. "You disappoint me. _Legilimens._ "

It didn't take a moment to deduce why Draco Malfoy seemed as if he'd tasted a dementor's kiss. There was nothing to be gained from lingering.

He quickly made his way back to the Warden's office.

"Warden Friswald, I need to ask you a favour."

Friswald looked up from his desk, somewhat startled by Harry's barging in. "Depends on the favour."

"Are all Death Eaters imprisoned in the last two years kept in the same section?"

"That would be right."

"You keep a record of guard duty, yes? Who was posted where and for how long."

"Goes without saying," Friswald said, raising a hand, "and before you demand to see it, I must at least know why."

Harry straightened his back, wanting to stand taller before the Warden, but collapsed onto the fluffy crimson carpet. A spasm twisted his face.

"Potter! Potter, what's wrong with you, lad?" Friswald thundered, rushing across the room.

"Nothing… I need—" He jammed his hand into a pocket, fervently searching for a particular flask. A memory of faux Mad-Eye Moody flashed before his eyes once he finally found the bloody thing. He swallowed and the lance of pain in his back subsided near immediately.

"It's nothing," Harry said, swatting away Friswald's arm.

"Didn't look like nothing."

" _Do not_ tell Sirius about this."

"Fat chance of that."

" _Warden,_ " Harry snapped, pulling himself up to his feet. "I need to see your guard ledger. If I'm wrong, then you needn't worry. But if I'm right, then you might have more Death Eaters in Azkaban than you think."

Friswald understood the implication, and with only a moment's doubt, he unlocked an enchanted cabinet and pulled the rightmost ledger from the top shelf. He flipped the pages. "There, that's where the last two years begin."

"No, a more recent record. The last three months."

Harry scanned the pages. He committed three names to memory, stopping at a fourth. "Who is Bramwell Forge?"

The ledger showed that Forge had been stationed at Azkaban for just two weeks around the relevant time.

"One of the Unspeakables," said Friswald, tapping a 'U' scratched next to Forge's name. "They pop in from time to time to engage in their unspeakable research. Come here to study the effects of dementor habitation, far as I know."

Four names, then.

~~oOo~~

"Absolutely out of the question," Sirius said. Ragnok Rakeharlaw glared at him from behind his gargantuan desk. Sirius appreciated a solid piece of office furniture, but this monstrosity was the size of a dinner table. The goblin cut a laughable figure. " _Wizard blood._ I have already given you that. I won't set a precedent of handing wizards over to Gringotts simply because they displeased you. I wouldn't have a loyal wand left by morning."

"And I may now have a loyal blade left in a week lest I win the clan's favour!"

"If you can't hold on to power for more than a couple of years, then perhaps dealing with a new chief would be to my advantage."

Ragnok bared his teeth. "An empty threat. You need my cooperation just as much as I need your aid."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. The little reptilian bastard thought he was indispensable. "With my aid, you've retaken fourteen former strongholds. All you're doing for me is being antagonistic and capricious towards the Ministry, which is what you typically do anyway. Reign in your greed."

Of course, telling a goblin to reign in his greed made as much sense as a Cheering Charm for a dementor's victim.

"That's all the time I have for you, Chief," Sirius said, his thought already leaping forward to the next item on the day's agenda. "I might help with your problem if you come up with a reasonable idea—something that doesn't involve handing wizards over into Gringotts' authority. I've done my part and more, so I understand you'll continue to hold up your end."

"Wait!"

Ragnok was leaning over his desk, claws outstretched. "There is something that would demand absolute obedience towards me. The one thing we value above gold and the blood of an enemy—return the Sword of Gryffindor to us. If—"

"No," Sirius cut him off curtly. "There is nothing to return, Ragnok. The Sword doesn't belong to goblins."

Ragnok snarled. "One does not sustain alliances by spitting on the ally, _wizard._ "

"You asked for the Sword before, and I refused you then. What made you think the answer would be different this time?"

Sirius marched briskly through a marble hallway and down the stairs, escorted by Ragnok's insults, and stepped out of Gringotts into a September evening. Diagon Alley's cafés bristled with customers just as shops were closing down.

The idyllic picture was marred by wanted posters. Sirius had Savage suggest putting them up all over London, as well as in towns and hamlets across the country, and printing them full-page in every paper. Not that Sirius expected people to do anything—in fact, he'd prefer they didn't—but it was a small way of reminding Britain that Voldemort was the enemy, not merely a political dissident. That's why Voldemort's likeness was featured prominently wherever the posters went up, with VOLDEMORT printed boldly across his chest. At first, the Ministry's Complaints Office had been flooded with letters, but soon enough, the irrational panic subsided.

Sirius apparated to Grimmauld Place Twelve between two steps, arriving directly into the study. Near immediately, he heard a knock on the door.

"Yes, Kreacher?"

The old elf cracked open the door, only daring to peer inside with one eye. "Miss Tonky came today, left this for master Black." A letter sailed from Kreacher's hand onto the desk.

"Did she say anything?" Sirius asked, slicing the envelope open.

"Said that Kreacher must bring the letter to master Black when master comes home."

"Allright. Bring me some tea."

"Master Black be eating dinner now?"

"No, just the tea."

The door shut behind Kreacher as Sirius unfolded the letter.

 _I've been experiencing the oddest memory quirk for a week or two. Got strange enough that Kingsley sent me to a Healer. Took the woman not five minutes to work it out._

 _I broke your Memory Charm, you bastard. You've become just as bad as the wretched Blacks and I won't stand by while you drag everyone around down to your level. You can explain yourself to Dumbledore when I find him._

 _Harry deserves better.  
Tonks_

Sirius crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it into the bin. "You know what, cousin, I would _love_ to have a chat with Albus."

~~oOo~~

Harry waited, hidden by the Cloak, eyes on the door. The room was small—a storage closet in the Auror department—and cluttered with office supplies, boxes of pre-enchanted purple paper ("Write your note, fold, and watch it go!") and a row of well-used Cleansweep broomsticks. The door cracked open just a hair, casting a needle of light across the floor, and then a wizard quickly came inside and shut the door behind him. Harry willed the Cloak to reveal him.

"I haven't gone sneaking 'round in closets since Hogwarts," said Savage, leaning on the broom rack. "What's this about?"

"I need a few good wands," Harry said. "People who know what they're doing in a fight, and won't blab about this to just anybody."

"You're on speaking terms with Shacklebolt, go talk to him."

Harry shook his head. "No. They must be from among Sirius' Knights."

Savage scratched the stubble on his cheek. "Sirius hasn't snatched up every Auror worth a damn, not yet. If you're onto something—"

"I'm going to meet a Death Eater and I need an escort. Kingsley will want to bring him in and I can't have that."

"Seems to me like you can handle one Death Eater," Savage said, rummaging through his disheveled robes for something. He fished a drawstring pouch out of a pocket, withdrew a purple leaf and started chewing on it. "Or are you expecting your date will bring company?"

"Yeah, that."

"How rude."

"I'm expecting… _something._ Can't tell you what, but I'd rather be prepared."

"Ambush?" The leaf Savage was chewing had instantly stained his teeth purple.

"Possibly."

"Allright." Savage spat the leaf out into the bin in the corner. "You can't just sneak in here and expect a squad of Aurors waiting to be drafted into a schoolboy's adventure."

"I'm not an idiot," Harry shot back. "There has to be one or two more, though."

"Perhaps," Savage agreed, nodding, "but what do you imagine Shacklebolt will think if he sees us all leaving on some undeclared business? You'll have to do with just me."

Tick tock, tick tock. Seventeen minutes until the hour. Harry grunted. "Meet me outside the visitors' entrance."

At three minutes to eight, Harry was walking unhurriedly through Knockturn, alert to anything. Every few moments he blinked and his vision changed into the magical sense he'd learned from Dumbledore, then returned to normal. He'd been this way enough times by now to know the rhythm of this part of town, and he spotted immediately that it wasn't a typical evening. The street was deserted—no one drunkenly made their way home from a disreputable establishment, no one was haggling over some exotic contraband and there wasn't a single budding dark sorcerer in sight.

As Harry walked, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder—a prearranged signal from Savage. The Auror, under the Cloak, tracked Harry down the street, scouting the high balconies and rooftops for signs of an ambush. Harry maintained a duelist's hold on his wand.

The street descended and turned as he neared Brody's club. Another tap on the shoulder.

Emerging from around the corner, Harry stopped and immediately slipped into a fighting stance. The Death Eater's silver mask stood in stark contrast to the darkness of the street. The Death Eater gave no sign of hostility and as far as Harry could tell, he or she wasn't holding a wand. As he came closer, ready to unleash Fiendfyre with a thought, the Death Eater gestured towards Brody's club, gave a slight nod, then, both hands raised defensively, disapparated.

Harry breathed out slowly. So far, his suspicions had been correct. He crossed the last stretch to the door and entered the dimly lit false front of Brody's club. The place was empty—even Brody wasn't in his usual place behind the bar. The single other person inside besides Harry sat in the far back booth, facing the door. They locked eyes as Harry approached, his steps slow and deliberate. Still in silence, he took a seat opposite the Death Eater—as he had predicted, not the one he'd arranged to meet.

Draco Malfoy smiled coldly. "Good evening, Potter."

"Hello, Draco."

"You don't seem surprised."

"I visited you in Azkaban this afternoon," Harry said. "Imagine my confusion when I found Aurora Fawley in your cell... wearing your face."

Draco remained stoic for a moment, but gave in and laughed. "Simple, but clever enough to fool everyone this long."

"Now comes the part where you explain to me why I shouldn't just kill you right now and make the world a better place."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think you could take me?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to count to three. One."

"Fine," Draco said. "I'm not here to provoke you. Tonight, I'm merely a messenger. Now, I'm going to take something out of my pocket…" His movements were slow and exaggerated. With just two fingers, he pinched at something inside his cloak and drew it out just an inch at first to show it wasn't a wand.

Harry had his wand trained on Draco under the table as he gently placed an ornate handheld mirror on the table.

"Ekhm. Vorlon Berger."

As soon as Draco spoke, the surface of the Two-Way Mirror rippled and a man's face appeared. Harry had never seen him, and he'd never heard the name. Berger flashed a grin—Harry spotted elongated fangs. One of Greyback's werewolves?

Berger disappeared as the mirror was flipped around. The image swayed, as if the carrier was walking, but Harry recognised the witch this Berger was apparently following.

"So you're going to sit and listen to what I've come here to say, and then we'll go our separate ways…" Draco drawled as he stuck the mirror back in his cloak, "or dear Hermione won't make it home tonight.

Heart racing, it took all the will Harry could muster to stay in his seat. "If anything happens to her—"

Draco laughed again. "What? Don't waste your breath on empty threats." He leaned back and draped his arms across the backrest. "Between us, Potter, I've rid myself of the delusion that you're a poor wizard. Don't mistake that for humility, I _am_ better than you—it takes more than what you've got to be a _great_ wizard. But you are the better duelist."

"Just tell me what he wants," Harry said quietly, not trusting his voice. His grip on the wand slackened.

Draco ignored him. "It wasn't easy to admit that, even though I was alone, or perhaps because of it. I had a lot of time to think in Azkaban," he said, and his smile vanished. Light died in his eyes for just a moment. "You know… just because dementors are gone, doesn't mean it can't get to you. Now you're not left alone with all your darkest thoughts. Now there's the awareness of what you lost. There's hope. At first I expected the Dark Lord would come for us. Then I hoped. Then I stopped hoping." Draco paused. "He left me there just long enough to make me think I'd been discarded. I'd failed him—because I had underestimated _you_. And look what that's got me. My family, dead. My home destroyed. I'm lucky. I've been given a second chance, and this time, I won't fail him."

 _"_ _Malfoy."_

As if waking from a trace, Draco straightened in his seat, pale hands intertwined on the table. "The Dark Lord is extending you an offer. If you accept, be here at the same time next week, alone. If not… the war continues."

"What offer?"

"Join the ranks of his Death Eaters. You can help build a new world, one worthy of wizards. Your friends will be allowed to live out their lives in a suitably far away place, if they swear to never involve themselves in any opposition to the Dark Lord."

One by one, glasses and bottles, lamps and windows exploded into deadly shards. Draco wasn't quick enough to avoid them completely. He glared with hatred as shards bounced off his Shield Charm, cradling his bloodied left arm. "Accidental magic, at your age? You shame your name, Potter."

"That wasn't an accident," Harry said. He hadn't moved from his place, his wand was still aimed at Draco's guts. "Run to your _master,_ Draco. Tell him if he touches one of mine, I'll dismantle everything he has ever built, tangible and immaterial, until not even the memory of him is left."

Malfoy stood and backed away cautiously, but dignified. "I wouldn't be so quick to refuse. The Dark Lord won't hold back forever." He kicked the door open and once outside, disapparated.

Air in the next booth over shimmered as Savage removed the Cloak. "You're lucky I've got impeccable reflexes, or your pretty cloak would be a heap of bandages now."

"I need that back," Harry barked, snatching the Cloak from the Auror's hands. In one smooth move, he draped it across his shoulders and the clasp clicked on his chest. "You tell no one about this. I'll talk to Sirius as soon as I get back."

"Back from where?" Savage called after him, but Harry was already halfway out of the bar.

Seconds mercilessly grew into minutes and he kept glancing at his watch. How long had it been since Malfoy left? It would take no time at all to contact Hermione's stalker again. He flew down the rickety steps on the bank of the Thames, sprinted through the dark tunnel, elbowed his way through the crowd at the Dungeon Keeper.

"Mallory, I need a portkey. _Right now._ "


	9. CHAPTER TWO: Dying of the Light, Part 3

**CHAPTER TWO: Dying of the Light**

 **Part 3**

Summer was powerless in the valley. Wind screamed up and down hillsides covered in three feet of snow. Glades of evergreen trees dotted the place, though the only animals living here were those magical beasts capable of thriving in permanent winter. Days were short and cold, followed by long, even colder nights. The few human settlements stood out, radiating light and heat absent everywhere else.

Voldemort walked unhurriedly past one such village—several dozen timber-and-stone buildings. A singular road wound its way through the valley, from the northern mountain pass down to the last inn, where human enchantments that maintained the road gave way to the Ghost's domain.

Reflected light flickered in the bushes to his right. Voldemort didn't bother reaching for his wand. The shadowbeast growled at him once, twice, then hesitated. It wouldn't approach the village any further, but a lone traveller made for intriguing prey.

"I have seen deeper darkness than the one you're named after," Voldemort whispered into the wind. Unspoken magic carried his words. The shadowbeast turned and ran, plowing through snow effortlessly.

A short walk later, Voldemort had climbed a crest in the terrain and a wider view of the valley opened before him. The village he'd just passed was closest to the mountains and he still stood on their southern slopes. The hidden valley was wholly encircled by snow-capped peaks, making this a feat of concealing magic that rivalled any wizarding district in a major city. It would have taken the greatest wizard years to accomplish alone, but Lortannes Vergir had had decades.

The castle at the southern tip of the valley would be too distant to see for anyone else, but Voldemort could just make out its many turrets and towers. What experiments had taken place there, what a vast repository of knowledge it had to be. Vergir had been kept safe and isolated by his reputation, and the ambitions of greater wizards and witches, who naturally abhorred hiding their talents in places like this. He would have remained beneath Voldemort's notice as well, if not for a recent rumour that those of great ambitions had become interested in the Ghost of Grindelwald.

Physical form became a ghost-like essence and Voldemort flew along the road, faster and steadier than any broomstick could in this weather. He brushed up against trees, infrequent travellers, buildings, and shrines to elder beings, leaving a touch of his magic on all of them—a silent, lingering announcement. Yes, he wanted them to know _someone_ had come. Let them puzzle out who was here to exorcise the Ghost and plunder his lair.

Reaching the border of the castle's wards, he assumed a half-form—still flying, but with the use of his wand—and flew up into the constant blizzard, probing the enchantments for points of weakness. Finding none, he plummeted back down. He reached into his pocket for a curse-breaking device of his own design, a ring constructed of four sections, each forged from a different magic-sympathetic metal. The ring floated in front of him and sprouted small antennae, each pulling on a thread of a different component of the enchantments. He pulled the threads apart—some he only strained, others he snapped completely. It was the work of minutes to open a passageway.

The moment the wards gave out, the castle's other defences came alive.

Faster than even Voldemort's eyes could follow, inferi broke through the frozen ground. He spotted a few taller corpses here and there, but most were goblins, brandishing spears, swords, crossbows and various other lethal objects.

Voldemort smiled. The inferi were numerous, but little effort had been put into their creation. Necromancy was distasteful work. These ones were barely animated. He felled a swath of them with a gesture, but others kept coming.

He drew a line of silver light around himself. The mobile ward hovered just above the ground as he walked and inferi who crossed it fell on their faces, twitching for a moment before the spell giving them faux-lives dissolved.

The next attack came from above. Gargoyles carved into the crown of every tower scrambled to grab masts, break bars out of windows, some dove straight at him armed with halberds and pikes. They opened doors in the sides of towers, revealing huge ballistas.

Voldemort vanished, incinerated, and redirected the hail of pointy objects attempting to skewer him, feeling at best annoyed, until a harpoon tore through his cloak. He felt blood soaking the robes where the harpoon had grazed his side. It had scythed through his shield like only goblin steel could—clearly, Vergir had taken more than corpses from them.

The animation spells on gargoyles were better than those on the inferi. Voldemort took flight again. His shield protected him from the bulk of attacks while he unleashed Blasting Curses on the ballista crews. When he landed again, it was a little more bloody and much angrier.

With a spell, he ripped the front gate from stone and strode inside, impatient to bring Lortannes Vergir to his knees, but he was too late. Vergir was already on the floor.

The entrance hall was lit with blueflame lanterns, and the master of the castle was bleeding out. Only his eyes gave any indication that he wasn't yet gone, because he dared not move. Another wizard stood above him, two wands in his hands, his boot crushing Vergir's skull.

"Lord Voldemort. I was expecting someone from your camp, but not yourself in person. That's even better. They'll sooner believe you killed Lortannes Vergir than some underling."

Voldemort paced across the hall. The blizzard was now blowing snow inside. His eyes slipped from Vergir to the wizard who had defeated him. "Your name is Sturgis Podmore. I never took you for more than one of Dumbledore's minor acquaintances."

"You weren't wrong. I've never been more than that to Albus Dumbledore." Podmore shifted his stance and the stone under Vergir's skull cracked. "I wish I had the time for a drink and a chat, but I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere."

"You can't imagine I'll allow you to leave."

Podmore tilted his head. "No, but I also imagine you care about the contents of this castle more than you care about me."

A heartbeat too late. The lanterns opened, spewing out lines of blueflame that spread through the castle, no doubt setting everything in their paths alight. This left Podmore's defence imperfect, but just good enough. The wand in his left hand imploded and splinters tore into his arm and side. Podmore still managed to block the next curse, and with a grimace on his face pressed his foot down. Vergir's head burst into a mixture of flesh, bone, and blood. The instant Lortannes Vergir met his end, his castle lurched in protest and began to crumble.

Voldemort didn't try to stop Podmore as he apparated out through the collapsing wards. Vergir's collection _was_ more important. Perhaps some of it could still be saved. He raised his wand and began to work.

~~oOo~~

Harry ghosted swiftly through the streets of Paris under the guise of his Cloak. He didn't dare apparating straight to his destination. The Delacour house was protected, but Death Eaters could be watching. He made his way to the dark alley at the back of the residence. An enchanted fence gate of black iron guarded this entrance. Harry approached, wand down by his side, and shimmered out of invisibility. The gate tensed and grew spikes, the keyhole vanished.

"I'm a friend," he whispered.

One of the spikes twisted itself into a question mark.

"Harry Potter."

Nothing happened for a moment, then the gate abruptly folded like origami and he stepped through, into the Delacours' garden. He didn't make it three paces before he had two wands pointed at his throat.

Before Harry could say anything, someone barked an order and two Aurors let him go. Etienne Delacour stood on the porch, a glass of wine in one hand, wand in the other.

"Minister Delacour." Harry inclined his head. "I apologise for arriving unannounced—"

Etienne silenced him with a gesture. "Come. Let's talk inside."

The Delacours must have been in the middle of dinner. Madame Delacour was at the table with her daughters. Gabrielle—this time she had blue, pulsating vines braided into her hair—blushed and looked away.

"Harry?" Fleur hurried over and hugged him closely. "Why are you here?"

"Where's Hermione?"

Etienne cleared his throat. "Peut-être que toi et ton ami devriez vous parler."

Fleur grabbed Harry's hand and pulled him upstairs, to her room.

"Why the extra security?" Harry asked once the door clicked shut behind them. "Does this have something to do with Hermione?"

"It might." Fleur sat down on the bed. "Some suspicious people were spotted in the area recently, Aurors took a photo of one of Greyback's werewolves. Papa ordered more protection."

Harry paced across the room. "Do you recognise the name Vorlon Berger?"

"No. But Hermione has been acting strange for some time. She told us there was a secret boyfriend—"

"That doesn't sound like her."

"I don't think she's the same girl you knew, Harry."

He sat down next to Fleur. "Acting strange… meaning what?"

"She disappears for days at a time… she's quiet. Nervous. More than when she first came here."

He breathed out heavily. "Allright. Do you have any idea where she might be? I _really_ need to find her."

"Is she in danger?"

"We're all in danger," Harry retorted flippantly, then bit his tongue. Fleur deserved a better answer. "Voldemort has made a direct threat against her. I have to bring her back to Britain. She _will not_ end up like Ron and Ginny."

Fleur stood, her face hardened. "Will she be any safer there? Death Eaters are everywhere now."

"She'll be with me." Harry looked into Fleur's eyes—just a brush of Legilimency. Enough to detect a secret being kept. "You know something. _Tell me._ "

She hesitated long enough that Harry's hand itched for his wand. "I think she's been trying to find Death Eaters. Revenge. For her parents."

"That was Malfoy, he's—" Harry bit his tongue. "He's in Azkaban."

"I don't know what's in her head, Harry," Fleur said, a hint of anger in her voice. "I've heard… There are rallies held in Paris. Apparently Death Eaters come to recruit for their master."

Harry turned sharply. "And what? It's just allowed to go on?" He glanced at the door. "You father isn't doing anything about it?"

"Aurors have tried. Death Eaters always slip away, and there's no reason to arrest attendees on the grounds of listening to people talk."

"And Hermione has been going to these rallies?"

"I can't say for certain, but I think so, yes."

There was a knock on the door. "Est-ce que ça va?"

"On va bien, maman!" Fleur replied. "The rallies aren't common knowledge, but word spreads in some circles. Sometimes… sometimes they even send out invitations."

Fleur avoided his eyes, but Harry caught a glimpse, and that was enough. "Did _you_ get an invitation?"

Biting her lip, Fleur reluctantly retrieved an unrolled note from her desk. Harry summoned it out of her hands. Slick, silvered parchment. Elaborate calligraphy. He had once received a letter that looked like this. He didn't understand most of it, but there was an address.

"You have to take me there."

Moments later, they were hurrying down the stairs, outside the house and into the back alley. The two Aurors in the garden stood in their way, but Harry blocked their stunners and tossed them aside with a flick. "She'll be back soon, I promise."

He held Fleur's hand firmly as she guided their apparation. They popped onto an empty street. A row of townhouses ran the length of it on one side, the other bordered a large park. Nearby, a group of three apparated into the street. Harry was ready to fight, but the mustachioed wizard leading them only touched the rim of his tall hat in greeting and led his party into the park.

"Go home," Harry whispered. "If Hermione's here, I'll find her."

"Maybe we should go together," Fleur said. "We don't know what to expect there, but I've been invited. Maybe they'll demand the note as proof."

"I can get in regardless. _Go home,_ " he said again, more firmly.

The moment Fleur was gone, Harry vanished under the Cloak and followed the group of three who had just entered the park. They walked unhurriedly, chatting, and for a moment Harry was worried they could just be taking an evening walk, but then the wizard reached into a pocket and pulled out a note like Fleur's.

The park was unlike the English gardens Harry was used to. Tall lamps illuminated wide paths of white stone. Trees, bushes and flowerbeds were precisely manicured. Benches painted white and blue surrounded lavish fountains. However, the further Harry went, the more the park changed. Order gave way to nature's designs. More witches and wizards emerged from shadows. Trees grew thicker, their branches mingling. Wild, thorny bushes replaced neat hedgerows, the paths here were paved with rough granite. The growing crowd drew towards a circular spot of beaten earth, where fairy lanterns hung from surrounding trees.

All told, the attendees numbered near a hundred. Harry began to slowly circle the gathering, scanning faces, but many had come hooded, cloaked, some even in veils and masks.

A series of subdued cracks rang out as Death Eaters apparated into the middle of the crowd. Harry's breathing stilled while he counted them. Three silver masks of the Inner Circle, and eight more besides. He briefly considered starting a fight—he had the element of surprise, he could probably snatch one or two and make it out before the rest caught on.

 _Don't be a fool._

The voice in his head sounded like Sturgis.

What if Hermione was here? Risking her for a Death Eater… Foolish, indeed.

So, he watched. At first, no one spoke, and Death Eaters didn't seem hurried to go first. Then, a witch stepped forward from the crowd.

"Qu'est-ce qu'on fait ici?"

Right. Of course they were speaking _French_ in _France._

More questions soon came and Death Eaters took readily to answering. Even unable to understand what was being said, Harry recognised the passion in their voices when the Inner Circle members spoke of Voldemort. Hesitation swiftly dissipated among the crowd and, while the silver masks kept themselves clearly separate, the other Death Eaters mingled freely with everyone else. Harry swore under his nose—he couldn't keep track of them like this. Worse, there wasn't a trace of Hermione.

Perhaps it was for the better she wasn't here. Maybe she'd just gone out for the evening and he would find her back at the Delacour residence.

The rally seemed to be winding down. A handful of witches and wizards had come up to shake hands with the Inner Circle. The Death Eaters had been the last to arrive and were the first to leave—two of the attendees went with them. Most of the crowd remained, filling the area with excited chatter. An argument broke out—the mustachioed wizard Harry had followed before stepped in to calm the tempers before wands were drawn. Little by little, individuals and small groups broke off and the gathering began shrinking rapidly as more people left.

Growing resigned, Harry slipped from witch to wizard, trying to glimpse their faces, but none of them were Hermione. Distracted, he walked right into a witch who stumbled back, catching herself against a tree. She exclaimed angrily in French, wand drawn. She grabbed someone by the elbow, aiming her wand at their face. The wizard in the top hat wasn't here to step in this time.

The witch and her would-be victim were suddenly pulled in opposite directions, tumbling across the ground. The onlookers seemed to freeze for a moment, as if expecting a duel to begin, but the witch was now being pulled away by two others. All eyes were drawn to the person who had cast the Banishing Charm. A hood obscured their face, but Harry recognised their wand just as it disappeared beneath the robes.

He extracted himself from the crowd and circled his target, then jabbed his wand at the far side of the clearing—several of the fairy lanterns exploded in a shower of sparks, metal and glass. He grabbed the hooded witch by the shoulder and disapparated.

They arrived in the alley bordering the Delacours' walled garden. Harry shimmered into view. Before he could get a word out, he had a wand pointed at his face.

"It's me," he said gently. "Sorry about that."

Hermione kept her wand up as she tore the hood from her head. She was flushed, her breathing rapid. "I could have hurt you, you idiot." Her shoulders sagged and she pulled him close, and they held onto each other for a long moment. "What are you even doing here?" she muttered into his ear.

"Let's get inside first," Harry said, looking both ways down the alley as they broke apart. Hermione fished a key out of her robes and unlocked the fence gate. Past it, they had to get through a gauntlet of questions, demands for explanations, and apologies—on Harry's part, for dealing so rudely with the Aurors, on Hermione's, for disappearing without a word.

The balcony of Hermione's room overlooked the garden. Harry could see the two Aurors at the gate from here, but Hermione assured him enchantments would prevent anyone overhearing them. Harry shed the Cloak and hid outer robes—spellweave clothes usually kept one comfortable, but the night was hot and humid. Hermione had gone behind a privacy screen and emerged seconds later in a shirt and pants.

"You first," she said, sitting precariously balanced on the railing.

"There's been a threat against you. A Death Eater followed you earlier today. You're no longer safe here."

Hermione crossed her legs. "What threat?"

Harry leaned heavily on the railing. "Malfoy tricked his way out of Azkaban. I met with him."

There was a long silence. Harry looked up. Hermione was holding onto the railing so hard that her knuckles had gone white.

"They let him go?"

"No. Aurora Fawley was released some time ago—only it wasn't Aurora. Malfoy had switched places with her. You and I are the only ones who know he's escaped. Well, us and Savage."

"Who?"

"One of Sirius's people. Doesn't matter!" Harry snapped. "I'm not afraid of Draco Malfoy. But… he showed me a two-way mirror. The other one was in the hands of someone following you earlier today. Did you notice anyone like that?"

"No," Hermione said. "When did this happen?"

"Just hours ago. I met with Malfoy, then came straight here."

"Why were you meeting with him at all?" There was an accusation in Hermione's voice.

Harry relayed the events of the past year, though he kept certain details to himself. No one needed to know about the evenings he'd spent probing the depths of Knockturn Alley, or what he'd done to Blaise Zabini—because everyone keeps secrets.

"You have to come back with me. You'll be safe at Grimmauld Place, and then we're going to Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts was attacked just last year," Hermione said. "They found a way in once, they can do it again."

"Yes, nowhere is _perfectly_ safe," Harry said. "But there, I'll be with you."

"I'm not helpless, Harry."

He closed his eyes, breathing out slowly. "You're not listening to me," he said quietly. Lamps in the room flickered and died. A crack split the floor, creeping towards them across the room. Hermione slipped off the railing.

"Harry…"

He grabbed her wrist and veins darkened under his grip as the unspoken spell chilled her blood. Hermione tried to pry his hand off. Harry opened his eyes and everything was reversed in a blink. He was still clutching her wrist.

"What will you do if Bellatrix Lestrange comes for you? Or Mulciber? What do you think it would do to _me_ if they came for you because you were alone?" He released her.

"I'm not al—"

 _"_ _Yes, you are!"_ Harry hissed. "Who here can help you? The Delacours? Those Aurors down there? Voldemort's Inner Circle could slice through them in not that much more time than it just took me to say it. Don't you understand?" He caught her shoulders this time, pulling her close until their faces were inches away. "I won't let you die. If we win or not… I won't let them have you. I can't lose more friends."

They were both breathing heavily, as if they'd just sprinted through Hogwarts' grounds. Hermione snaked out of his hold—he didn't stop her. She stood in the middle of the room, inspecting the lamps and the floor, but there was no trace of damage. With her back turned, she said, "I thought you would have asked why I went to the rally."

"I don't need to ask. I know exactly why," he said. She turned around and they shared a look of understanding. "And really, revenge is just another reason to come with me. Malfoy is in Britain."

"If I asked you to help me find him…"

The obvious answer leapt to the tip of his tongue, but he caught himself. Obvious, but not the _right_ answer. Malfoy was a player in the game, and the objective was Voldemort. Everything else had to be secondary. "When Voldemort is dealt with, I swear Malfoy will be yours."

Hermione shook her head. "That's not what I wanted to hear… But I understand." She came out to the balcony again, stood next to him and squeezed his hand. "Alright. I'll go with you. Not right away though. I'll need a few days to take care of formalities. I've built a life here, Harry, I can't just abandon everything without explanations."

"Fine. I'll tag along." Harry looked out at the garden. The moon was perfectly reflected in the surface of Fleur's enchanted pond. "Do you think Delacours will have me over for a few nights? I haven't exactly made a good impression tonight."

~~oOo~~

"Got everything?"

Hermione nodded, but then her eyes widened. "Wait, have I…" She opened the tiny handbag and stuck her arm inside, up to the elbow, silently reciting some list as she rummaged through the enchanted luggage. "I think I've got it all."

Fleur hugged them both. She whispered something to Hermione in French.

"Would you give us a moment?" Hermione asked.

"I'll be outside."

The elder Delacours were out, but the Auror sentries kept guard over the fence gate as well as Gabrielle, who sat on the edge of the pond with a spellbook in her lap and a bowl of seeds. She leafed through the book, began reciting some enchantment in a language Harry didn't recognise, and measured out seven seeds, which she tossed into the water. The seeds were plucked from the surface, and then the pond shimmered red, then orange, yellow, and the other colours of the rainbow.

"Very clever," Harry said, coming closer. Gabrielle turned quickly—she had satin ribbons in her hair today. "Seven lines in your spell, seven seeds, seven colours. Seven and three. A powerful pair. You're starting at Beauxbatons this year, aren't you? You'll do well with charms."

"Harry, stop flirting with my sister. You're much too old for her."

He spun around, both indignant and embarrassed. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the Aurors cracking up.

"I wasn't—" he protested, but Fleur just laughed.

"Go, before I change my mind and keep Hermione here."

They made their final goodbyes and left through the gate, then apparated to Paris' busy portkey terminal, where they secured passage to the heart of wizarding Berlin. It had been four days since Harry had shown up at the Delacours', two days since he'd received a letter from Sturgis, extending an invitation to visit him. With the letter had come enclosed a bizarre set of instructions—they were to hop from fireplace to fireplace, starting from a brewery in Berlin. All told, there were twenty-three stops on the list. It had taken Hermione two minutes to work out the significance of it.

"It's a lock. Some doors are opened with physical keys. Think of the fireplaces as the notches on a magical key."

Making twenty-three Floo jumps would take its toll on the sturdiest witch or wizard, so Sturgis advised in the letter to set out in the morning and take their time. Harry was curious whether his affinity to rapid apparations would have a similar effect when Flooing, but since Hermione was coming along, they would take Sturgis' advice.

Wizarding Berlin was just as busy as London or Paris. Hermione looped her arm through his and they walked unhurriedly, though Harry was hyper-aware, scanning the crowd constantly. His rudimentary Legilimency was of little use, unfortunately. He'd tried using it to monitor crowds before and had only succeeded in giving himself a headache.

"You've never talked about him. Sturgis, I mean," Hermione said.

"No, I haven't."

She poked him. "You know what I mean."

"Well, I… Most of what he and I spoke of… it wasn't meant for anyone else."

"You spent a lot of time together that summer."

"Did we?" Harry asked, his attention divided between Hermione and the people around them. "I never noticed."

"You were always off somewhere, usually with him or Sirius, and Sirius doesn't seem like the nurturing type."

Harry snorted. "And Sturgis does?"

"I think Sirius always saw much of other people in you. Your father, himself perhaps? Like you were already supposed to be… fully formed." Hermione tugged on his arm and he slowed his pace accordingly. "Sturgis understood that you weren't."

"And what do you make of me now? Have I achieved my proper form?" The question was left without an answer, because Harry pulled her along in a different direction. "That's our first stop."

The front of the brewery was a packed beer hall, and no one made much of them as they came in. Harry made the required payment for the use of their fireplace and they shot off to the next stop on their journey.

Arriving in a lakeside hamlet, they exited the local tiny owl post office. The clerk didn't even bother looking up from his paper. Sturgis' letter instructed them to next knock on the door of one Wendylla Wecker. The envelope had contained an octagonal token they were supposed to give her.

"I don't think so," Hermione said.

"Hmm?"

"You're not fully formed yet. I don't think that's possible while Voldemort lives."

Harry frowned. "How do you mean?"

"Have you ever stopped to think about what you want for yourself once Voldemort is gone? If… we can defeat the Dark Lord, what then?"

For a while, they walked along the lakeshore in silence. Harry paused and came right up to the water, looking for his reflection, but saw only a blurred blob in the gently lapping water where his face should be. He shook his head and they continued down the path. "I haven't thought that far ahead," he admitted.

"You should give it a try," Hermione said. "Don't just think about _him_."

Wendylla didn't seem surprised at two strangers showing up on her doorstep to inquire about her fireplace. She inspected the token under a magnifying glass, bit down on it, and had her dog sniff at it. Satisfied, she ushered them towards the quietly crackling hearth in the kitchen.

Two stops later, Harry was growing impatient with their slow progress. He appreciated the elegance of the mechanism, but twenty-three points seemed excessive. The sixth fireplace deposited them inside an apothecary in Munich. Someone came just as they arrived, and Harry's eyes were drawn to the bell above the door. A line of hieroglyphs were painted along the doorframe, and he noticed the Eye of Horus.

"Come. We need a map."

They found one of central Europe at a tourist kiosk and sat down at the edge of a fountain. Harry levitated the map in front of them and tapped Berlin, marking it with a glowing point.

"Give me all the locations."

Hermione read the list out loud. Harry highlighted destinations on the map, increasingly convinced he was right. Berlin, Munich, Vienna...

"What am I missing?" Hermione asked, staring at the glowing markers.

Harry connected the dots. A line, bisecting a circle, within a triangle. The last two fireplaces were both in the city of Linz, the only point of the Deathly Hallows symbol where the lines of the Wand, the Stone, and the Cloak all met.

"We can skip most of these," Harry said, vanishing the map and Sturgis' letter.

Hermione gasped. "I hope you've memorised the list—"

"Have you read the Tales of Beedle the Bard?" Harry cut in.

"Yes, but what does—"

"Well, of course you have," he muttered. He pulled her along without explanation, and she didn't press for one. From the next point on Sturgis' list, they instead went straight to Linz and walked the last stretch to a pub populated by types Harry had seen plenty of at Brody's club. The place sat in the dead end of an alley so narrow they'd had to walk single file to reach the door. Harry was instantly on his guard, as their brisk entrance had drawn many eyes. Most patrons turned back to their drinks and companions just as quickly, but several lingered on them as they made their way towards the twin fireplaces straddling the opposite ends of the bar.

Harry meant to ask the bartender about the powder, but as he approached the fire, it roared, spitting sparks, and turned purple. He felt a tingle of magic reaching towards his chest, where the clasp of the Cloak currently sat disguised as an ordinary robe ornament.

"Hermione… do you notice anything unusual about the fire?"

"No. Unusual how?"

Before he could answer, he felt a slight weight in his pants pocket. He didn't recall putting anything there. Reaching in, he found a small pouch of Floo powder.

The purple flare fell away and then flames turned the expected green when Harry fed them the powder, and, with a glance to make sure no one would follow them, they stepped into the swirl.

Harry came out of the fireplace first, and driven by inexplicable instinct, brandished his wand as he spun out of the fire. Hermione came through to see him and an unknown witch pointing wands at each other.

"You're early. And you bypassed the sequence," the witch said in accented, but fluent English.

"I got bored," Harry retorted. "Where have I seen you before?"

"How _did_ you bypass my sequence?"

Harry recognised Sturgis' voice.

"Camilla, that's alright. I'll take care of our guests from here."

The name unlocked a memory. He remembered now: Camilla had delivered some message to Sturgis during the ICW conference. Sirius had never spoken of what he and Sturgis did that day.

Wands were mutually lowered, and Camilla turned to leave, though not without another hostile glance.

"Is she your bodyguard?" Harry asked.

Sturgis' eyes narrowed. "Camilla is to me what Lucius Malfoy once was to Voldemort. More impressive wizards than yourself have learned not to underestimate her."

"Bloody hell, what happened to you?" Only now it registered with Harry that Sturgis' bandaged right arm rested in a sling, and he limped slightly as he crossed the room to greet them.

Sturgis smiled slyly. "I ran into an impressive wizard. Come. I hope you're hungry."

Lunch was served on a balcony overlooking an indoor jungle. From the table, they had a view of an enormous glass dome, pierced by three massive trees. The trees supported several platforms and rope bridges—one of which was connected to the balcony.

"Impressive. Professor Sprout has got nothing like this at Hogwarts," Harry said.

"Oh, that's just a vanity project. It keeps growing. I might have to enlarge the dome. It's already too small for the occamy."

Hermione choked on her tea. "You kept an occamy in here?"

"Yes, but he's living in the woods now, guarding my border. Probably eating a whole lot of beetles… Anyway. How have you been? Both of you." Sturgis only used his left hand to eat, but the enchanted cutlery compensated and he ate his steak without any trouble.

Harry had already heard much about life in France from Hermione, but he gladly listened a second time. He even felt somewhat ignored while Sturgis and Hermione traded anecdotes about places they were both familiar with. He amused himself by trying to spot the other fauna in the dome, but drew the line at the conversation switching to French.

"It's nice to chat and all, but I don't think you invited us just for dinner."

Sturgis wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair. "Quite right. I have some news which, I hope, will take at least one worry off your minds. Remus Lupin is perfectly alive, if perhaps not perfectly well. Well enough, however, to do a job for me."

"You've seen him?" Harry straightened in his seat. "When? Where?"

"Here, a short while ago. Remus, along with another associate of mine are performing a particular task for which I believe them to be uniquely equipped."

"What task?"

"They are retrieving an alchemical component which is only obtained from a region in Siberia called the Blue Cleft." Sturgis turned to Hermione. "And I see one of you knows of what I speak."

"I see how a werewolf is _uniquely equipped_ to go there," Hermione said, "but what about your _associate_?"

"He possesses an affinity for grotesque violence."

Harry cleared his throat. "Excuse me. What's in the Blue Cleft?"

"You tell him," Sturgis said, reaching for his tea.

"Well… it's a huge ravine with access to one of the largest known cave systems." Hermione knotted her hands together. "It's never been fully mapped because it's the largest hive of vampires in the world. Vampires are strange—the most powerful ones are solitary and sometimes even live among wizards, but when they congregate—"

"These are not the vampires from stories and history books. These ones are more akin to animals," Sturgis said, a slight grimace on his face. "Some years before the Statute took hold, the powers of the wizarding world decided that vampires would be too great a risk. The Blue Cleft is a very large prison. It turns out, leave vampires to themselves for long enough, and they regress to rather more savage dispositions than one expects of civilised creatures. Which just shows you the difference between us and them."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

Sturgis scrunched up his face in disgust. "Wizards don't hunt each other for food."

"The ICW thought banishing vampires there was a fantastic idea," Hermione said. "A few years later, a delegation discovered that the ravine accessed extensive caverns, which contained huge veins of floo crystals—they're blue, hence the Blue Cleft—which are the source of the powder. No deposits like those have been discovered anywhere else. For the most part, we have to mine and grow the crystals."

"A particularly pure kind of crystal is called a flooheart," Sturgis added. "And it has only ever been found in the Cleft. That's what I've sent Remus to get for me. At least six pounds of it."

Hermione stared at Sturgis, incredulous. "Six pounds is probably enough to launch _Hogwarts_ through the Floo network. What could you possibly need it for?"

"And that brings me to the second reason I invited you here… although this is something I'd rather leave between Harry and me." Sturgis stood and knocked twice on the table. The plates and dishes began to clean themselves up, cutlery piled up inside the empty soup bowl, the tablecloth snapped as if released from an elastic strap and rolled up neatly.

As if summoned, Camilla came into the dining alcove.

"Hermione, I'm afraid I must be quite rude now and invite you to tour my home with Camilla while Harry and I speak alone," Sturgis said, inclining his head. Hermione stood up, squeezed Harry's hand, and followed Camilla out.

"I've heard from Sirius you've had the important talk." Sturgis snapped his fingers and the balcony door flew shut. He opened it again, but now it led to an attic room. It was empty, save for a table upon which rested a strange device. Harry joined Sturgis inside. As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of a house elf apparating to clean up after dinner.

Harry circled the table, studying the device, but the design was beyond him. He had never seen anything like it, not even among Dumbledore's collection in his office at Hogwarts. The only familiar element were some runes inscribed on the rim of several lenses arranged as if to focus light. The whole thing looked heavy and unwieldy.

"This is the soulcatcher, then." Although he understood near nothing about it, he felt the thrum of enchantments weaved around every element, and the unmistakable, slick taste of the Dark Touch. "Explain."

Sturgis cleared his throat. "Voldemort created horcruxes for himself. Whether by accident or by design, at least some of them have become living horcruxes—imbued within living hosts rather than objects. You are one. Sirius is another. Perhaps there are more."

"How can you be sure this thing will work?"

Sturgis stood leaning against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle. "Horcruxes are not a factor in the operation of the soulcatcher, Grindelwald designed it to imprison souls—"

"Why would he even need such a thing? Why not just kill the enemy, or lock them up, bound in cold-forged chaines?"

"This _is_ a prison—more secure than anything else wizards have thought of," Sturgis explained, and Harry noticed a patronising note in his voice. "Horcruxes, whether living or not, will keep Voldemort alive as long as even one survives. With this, you can… _remove_ him without the need to kill him, which means you get to live."

Harry straightened his back, drumming a slow rhythm on the table with his fingers. "I don't understand why you're even building it. Why do you care about not letting me die?"

"You ascribe to me a noble motive I am not driven by." Sturgis smiled—it was a cold smile, not reaching the eyes. "I want Voldemort gone—whether dead or held within the soulcatcher, I don't much care. All of his horcruxes must be destroyed before he can be killed. If I knew where to find them, I might have taken that approach. As matters stand, this way is more expedient."

"Well…" Harry stared at Sturgis, who met his eyes without hesitation. The elder wizard opened his thoughts just enough that Harry knew he was sincere. "That's not the answer I expected."

Previously, Sturgis had been a trusted, if distant, ally. In this moment, looking the elder wizard in the eye, Harry learned it was an alliance of convenience, in place until their common enemy was defeated. Had Sturgis always thought like that, or had things changed in the time since he'd left Britain?

"I told you that murder is always wrong, though it may be righteous," Sturgis said, crossing the room.

Harry backed away, hand hovering near the wand holster at his belt. "I thought you meant killing your enemies."

Now with his back turned to Harry, Sturgis ran his hand over the soulcatcher, idly adjusting its moving parts. "I suppose a lie of omission is as false as any other… You know I let Grindelwald be killed. He wasn't my enemy." Sturgis turned, wearing that cold smile again. "I think one day I might even tell you the truth. I can tell you without reservation, I will stand with you against Voldemort when the time comes."

"And once he's dealt with?"

"I'm not out to kill you, or Sirius, or anyone you care about. But you needn't leave here today thinking I've become your enemy."

The door opened and Camilla entered. She stood between them as Sturgis came closer, offering his good arm. Harry grasped it, realising what Sturgis meant to do. Camilla raised her wand above their arms and lines of fire streaked out, binding them.

~~oOo~~

Sirius was not typically prone to anxiety. There were pieces to move on the board, promises to make and keep, people to persuade. No time to sit around worrying. Voldemort was hatching his own scheme in Britain no doubt, and he would move forward regardless of what his enemies might do. Hence, Sirius carried on as well. These past few days, however, he found his thoughts drifting in meetings, and he'd been putting off replying to his mail in favour of staring out of the window or browsing Cygnus' journals.

Cygnus hadn't merely recorded his ideology. During his brief reign over the Black clan, he had made himself an indispensable part of every undertaking the Blacks were involved in, business and otherwise. For every page filled with fanatical manifestos and theses on Dark wizardry, there was one detailing how he had restored the Blacks from near ruin to a semblance of their former fortune. Sirius had used those notes to slowly rouse the machinery of the estate from slumber.

Presently, however, he found himself half-listening to Savage speak about his most recent encounter with smugglers.

"Wait. I didn't catch that," Sirius said, interrupting the Auror.

"The transport was paid for with a writ from Morpheus Fawley." Savage shook the remaining ash out of his pipe, then vanished the lot off the pristinely polished table. "You've hardly listened to a word I've said, boss."

"Right, right. Fawley. Could you—"

"Leave it for you in writing? Sure, I don't have enough note-taking to do at work." Savage snorted, then produced a folded parchment from an inner pocket. "A copy of the report I submitted to Shacklebolt. I can't say what he'll do with this information, but suspicion around Fawleys is just about at the threshold. Whatever you plan to do about them, do it soon."

Savage stood and left without waiting to be dismissed. Sirius appreciated the range of personalities within his ranks. Savage wasn't one for dawdling.

Left alone in the vast room, Sirius ignored the report and summoned a bottle of dwarven rye instead. He was on his second glass when he felt the border enchantment reach out to him. Someone had just come through the gate uninvited. Someone familiar. Sirius summoned an extra glass and waited.

A long, torturous minute later, the door opened and Albus Dumbledore walked in.

"This is rather more impressive than the kitchen at Grimmauld Place Twelve."

"Albus." Sirius noticed Dumbledore's right arm—blackened, withered, dying. "How have you been?"

Dumbledore sat opposite Sirius, the chair sliding out and back in at the merest gesture. "If you imagine I've come because of Nymphadora, let me tell you I encountered her already on my way here. I have several important things to do and little time in which to do them."

"I take it seeing me is one of them." Sirius sipped on his rye. "D'you fancy a glass?"

"Please."

Sirius didn't hurry pouring Dumbledore's drink. Was he telling the truth about Tonks? How much time was _little_ , precisely?

"Thank you," Dumbledore said, then tasted. "A rare thing. Embargoed, as I recall."

Sirius shrugged. "Where's Fawkes?"

The dormant embers in the hearth blazed to life, belching out a flare that licked the table nearly as far down as both wizards sat. The phoenix shot forth from it, circled the room twice and finally settled on the backrest of the throne where Sirius would sit during full gatherings. He looked young.

"He's had a recent burning," Dumbledore said, smiling fondly. "The plumage isn't yet quite as brilliant as he's used to." Fawkes cawed as if in complaint and busied himself grooming the feathers in his tail. "But we must get down to business, as the muggles say."

"Are you planning on seeing Harry?"

"I am indeed, at earliest possible convenience. Where might I find him?"

"He's travelling. Should be back tonight."

Dumbledore rolled a strand of his beard around a finger of his good hand. "Travelling?"

"I don't supervise his comings and goings. You tried, with miserable results. Do you remember what happened when we let him have some autonomy? He flourished."

"I shan't argue about the merits of your mentorship anymore than I would with Mr. Podmore. Harry is of age and what I have to say to him may remain between me and him." Dumbledore shifted in the chair, resting his cursed arm on the tabletop. "Sirius… If this building is indicative of what you've accomplished with your Silver Order, I must express my concern."

"Express away," Sirius said, rising swiftly to his feet. "Mind if I stretch my legs while you do?"

"I commend your successes, Sirius, but I question your methods. From what Nymphadora told me and what I've been able to observe from afar, you've gone further on the path of your ancestors than I ever imagined you would."

"There will be a world _after_ Voldemort. Last time, you stopped when he vanished. I choose to look at what's beyond. I don't know when or how precisely we'll defeat him, but the Dark Lord _will_ fail. When he does, my people won't be tossed into Azkaban or murdered by Death Eaters."

Dumbledore downed the rest of the rye. When he moved, a spasm shook him and he looked at Fawkes. The phoenix soared from his perch and onto Dumbledore's backrest. Leaning over the wizard's shoulder, Fawkes shed a single tear onto the cursed limb and Dumbledore relaxed.

"You've not found a way to undo it?" Sirius asked. "Even after a year, and with Snape travelling with you?"

"Pay it no mind," Dumbledore said, though his voice strained. "You haven't taken the best path, but there's time—"

"For what?" Sirius cut in. "To do things your way? You were gone for a year, there was no time to request your input on every decision. I'm not as cold as you, Albus, I can't be. Sometimes acting on impulse is what's required."

Dumbledore stared at him, and Sirius nearly folded under the weight of that gaze. "You split the Order of the Phoenix on impulse, and I'm not convinced what you've built to replace it is what's _required_."

"Perhaps it's my impulsiveness that draws people to me." Fawkes seemed to glare at him, and Sirius narrowed his eyes as he returned it. _Bloody bird._

"I was always mindful of who I drew to myself. Some of those you've surrounded yourself with…"

"I've got plenty to choose from," Sirius shot back. "Your Order was always short-handed."

Dumbledore ignored the retort. "Take Corvin Savage. I don't think he cares as much about opposing Voldemort as the opportunity to exercise his anarchist aspirations."

"Nothing wrong with a bit of anarchy."

"Then, Mr. Robards. A careerist. Even as a boy, he's never truly believed in anything. He will disappoint you."

"So far, the only disappointment has been the one I stole from you." Sirius spat these words out like an accusation. "She's learned well—as reluctant to action as you were on your best day. At least she has an excuse—she can't stand on even ground with the Dark Lord."

It was a long moment before Dumbledore replied.

"You can't either," he said.

Sirius blinked. Had he imagined the note of doubt? Under different circumstances, he would've been flattered. "No, I can't…" he said slowly, "but I'm the one standing against him now, while you were away on a wellness retreat, apparently."

"There are very good reasons why I've always counseled restraint."

Sirius grimaced with derision. "A rule set forth and followed by those frightened of their own power."

"It is because of my power that I know to fear it, Sirius." Dumbledore spoke quietly now. "Frankly, I didn't insist on caution for your sake, but for Harry's. You are a rare talent among wizards, and in your prime. But even still, tired and soon to death as I am, I needn't move from my chair to disarm you."

"I'm not naive, Albus. I don't claim to measure up to you, or Voldemort."

"But Harry will."

"Yes, _he_ will." Sirius circled the end of the table and came closer to Dumbledore. "And he's the best of us. The same instinct for magic you've got, and he's driven in a way you haven't been in a long time. You're old, Albus. He hasn't lived long enough to let go of hatred, and that's why he won't stop until he's won. And I'll be at his side when he does."

Dumbledore stood up now, squeezing Sirius's shoulder as he passed. He stopped in front of the fireplace, which still burned with the remnant of Fawkes's entrance. "I cautioned restraint because, for all that I tried, and for all that I could have forced him, I dared not steer Harry more directly than I already was. I had tried forcing a young wizard's path before, and he became Lord Voldemort."

Sirius joined Dumbledore and they looked into the flames together as Dumbledore continued.

"I had thought a lot about my failings with Tom Riddle and concluded that mentorship can't be imposed. I made myself approachable, yet Harry turned to you. How much of it is the influence of the marks left on him by Voldemort and how much is his own nature, I cannot know, but he came to you."

Dumbledore looked at Sirius again, his face split between shadows and light. "I fancy myself a rather excellent judge of character, however immodest that sounds, and I rarely make mistakes, but then my mistakes are also proportionally greater. With you, I was missing one important piece of the puzzle. The piece Regulus had stolen from Voldemort and hidden away in his house, where you found it two years ago, and the House of Black aided its master in hiding that dark thing from my sight."

Sirius exhaled slowly. "I'm only surprised it's taken you this long to figure it out."

"I should have realised it sooner, but I was preoccupied with a thousand tiny matters, and several larger ones. What Harry told me of Voldemort's resurrection provided clues I could finally, after thirteen years of searching, assemble into a coherent whole. I was close… but then you brought me that box."

"Which contained another horcrux," Sirius said.

Dumbledore nodded. "The object itself was far more intriguing to me than the piece of Voldemort within. I gave in to curiosity for a single moment... For all that my talents have led to achievements, they've also been responsible for my greatest failings. Because without caution, a wizard cannot help but pursue one's ambitions. Mine cost me this," he raised his cursed arm, and Sirius thought it might catch on fire from the sparks.

"I let go of Harry to such a degree that he drifted into the sphere of influence of some very talented, very dangerous wizards." Dumbledore looked up at Sirius again, and this time, there was regret in his eyes. "He heard you espouse the catharsis of revenge, he learned from Sturgis Podmore about the righteousness of murder, and even received one or two lessons from Jervis Mulciber, brief and brutal as they were, that _might_ makes _right_."

"You haven't seen him change. He's not so far gone as you fear," Sirius said. He didn't move while Dumbledore turned away and made to leave. "He's not like Voldemort."

Dumbledore paused at the door. "I no longer have time to attempt to save the boy from the corruption you've allowed to be unleashed upon him. I can only hope you're right—that he is the best of all of us."


End file.
